Mentor
by GoldenAmaryllis
Summary: He had nothing left to lose anymore, but something was still keeping him from going all in. He had no one left to trust, but from somewhere he had to find it in himself. Everyone cared about what happened, but somehow, he didn't. Not until now. Haymitch's POV during the Hunger Games, explaining how he first became involved with District 13.
1. I Would Have Rather Forgotten

**A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fanfic, and also the the first fanfic I've posted, er, ever. So please, please, please, reviews and constructive criticism!**

**I've always thought that Haymitch is so intriguing. There will be no pairing (as of now, and especially because I have no idea how people get Haymitch/Effie, but I don't mean to argue) because I can't imagine Haymitch getting into that at all, or at least for a while.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters. But I do own all OCs (in later chapters). **

My head pounds. Somehow, my hangover is worse than usual. Why had I been drinking so much? Ah, that is no question to ask. I drink every day. No, but there is something special about tomorrow; I am sure of it. Something that is not to look forward to. I pick up an already uncorked bottle, half spilling its contents on my filthy white shirt. Fiery liquor splashes down my throat and on my clothes, staining the front of my shirt. Whatever. Who cared. I was going to figure out soon enough anyways.

Belching loudly, I fall back onto my bed. Someone is probably going to come to nag me about the event. A Peacekeeper, no doubt. Nobody else would come over to my place. Victor's Village, whatever. It isn't as if you'd even be able to tell, from the filth that covered the walls. Still, it's not like it matters. It's probably better if people dislike me anyways.

The rest of the white liquor slides down my throat. Oh. Running low. Should get to Hob sometime to get some more. I wonder how much Ripper has in stock. Tipping my head back, I catch the last few droplets with my tongue. They slide, burning, down my throat. I try to stagger to my feet but fail. That is a good thing anyways. Best to be drunk by…tomorrow. What was that something again? Oh, of course.

The Reaping.

Two more kids for me to send to their deaths. Kids from District Twelve never had much chance. I realized long ago that the tributes from the other district, or plain just the children from the other districts, started their trades young, unlike here, where people couldn't start working in the coal mines until they were 18. So, they didn't have a lot of experience, specialties. My own Hunger Games were—

No. I can't think about that. Ugh, need another drink. Wait a moment. Where did I leave my bottle opener? I scrabble around, half-blind and groggy. Can't find it. Grunting, I pry the bottle open with my fingers. It scratches my hand bloody raw. I had lost my corkscrew several times before, so it was nothing new. I know I can buy another one from Ripper tomorrow. I have to go see her tomorrow. Buy some more liquor as well. Glancing over, I rattle my remaining bottles. Not enough to last through the night; most of them clash hollowly.

This year's Hunger Games will probably be the same as always anyways. Kids with no worked upon talent, no evolved skill. It's hard not to care, but if I drink enough, I can almost be drunk enough to not notice. I wonder if the Capital will sell me me usual liquors. Effie Trinket had obviously expressed her disapproval. Not that she actually cares. She just wants the "fame" and "glory" of escorting an an actual potential victor, which was highly unlikely in District 12.

My head really is going to split open. A few more bottles, and I will hopefully be out. I down the next one with a couple gulps. My mind aches for the soothing darkness of unconsciousness. It would be nice not to have to worry about these things. The next bottle causes a torrent of vomit. Mouth sour and throat aching, I black out.

* * *

I wake when the moon is just disappearing. I figure it is around four or five in the morning. What was I planning to do again? Something important…something I planned to do, and then there was also something bad. Well, the bad thing ought to be the Reaping today at noon, but before that I was going to…My hangover strikes and I just groan and fall back asleep.

An hour later, I get up. Oh. The Hob. I had to get there to buy more white liquor.

I don't even bother making myself presentable. Ripper counts on me to buy her liquor, and she doesn't care how I look so why should I? Clawing open another bottle, I gulp it down. I don't think my throat can hurt any more than what I'm feeling now, so I manage to choke down the alcohol. Popping open my last bottle, I stagger out the door, taking quick gulps of it as I walk. My hands search my coat pockets. Plenty of money. Ever since I became a victor, that's the one thing I've never been short on. Except for maybe the sight of death.

Walking to the Hob seemed to take ages. I probably tripped and fell a few times. Couldn't tell though. My senses were still too drunk.

Nobody says a word to me as I walked past. Not that I care. It's not like I act all buddy-buddy with them. But they did not really hate me either. They should. I walk their children to their deaths. I suppose I did try to help, but after a certain point it wasn't like it mattered anymore. I could never understand why they didn't loathe me. My solution is to just ignore everything. I suppose people don't blame me because I'm a victor. Not because they want to suck up to me or anything, but just because victors hold this certain amount of respect. We're survivors, in District 12 especially.

I push the doors to the Hob aside and walk -stagger- in. "Hey Ripper," I slur.

The tough, burly woman looks up. She doesn't even say a word, just leans behind her and pulls out a few bottles of liquor.

I toss some coins onto the table. They rattle against the wood, clinking loudly. Everyone was nervous. The amount on the table was way more than a few bottles of white liquor were worth, but Ripper has never been your shining white knight. If extra was given to her, especially from someone like me, she would take it. Anybody in this place would. It wasn't so much greedy as necessary. She carefully collects them and returns to her own business while I slump and drink.

I knock off a few hours there, with nothing else to do. But even alcohol (sadly) can't make me totally oblivious. The atmosphere in the Hob was visibly subdued. Some of the regulars weren't there; rather, they were preparing for the Reaping.

The door swings open again, and in walks a young girl, accompanied by a young man. Both look similar enough to be related. Their Seam eyes have the same look in them. It was hard to explain. They are carrying their pickings from the woods: Fish, greens, and strawberries. So they're our society's two little hunters. They were often at the Hob, trading and bargaining with the other regulars, even if both of them were much younger than the others. The girl looked young enough to be in the Reaping. The young man could be. Both were calm enough, trading with Greasy Sae. Were they nervous? Did they have to sign up for a lot of tessera? How many times were their names entered? I don't know a lot about them, even though I spent a lot of time in the Hob. Thinking on it, I was usually passed out drunk in the Hob. Or in my house.

"I figure that half of our greens should be fair enough for a few chunks of paraffin." The girl's voice floats over to me. Her voice is lyrical, clear and songlike. Oh. I know another voice like that. Or rather, knew. She was that Everdeen's daughter. He was a good man, Everdeen, before the he...what happened to him? Oh yes, he died in a mine explosion. Greasy Sae grumbles, but relents. They swap the goods. I think that the Everdeen girl could have gotten a better deal, but whatever. They're kids. Maybe they trade with Greasy Sae on purpose, even though they can get better deals elsewhere. Or maybe they just aren't as smart as they look.

Packing their things, they whisk away, as quickly as they came. They hadn't been paying attention to me. I usually wouldn't be paying attention to them either, but the Reaping was making me sentimental.

I let out a belch. My job was to be absolutely drunk by then.

I begin to notice when one by one, the people around me leave, filing out to attend some business. I am left all alone, in what used to be my home.

"Hey, Abernathy, get up," a voice says roughly.

I stare blearily at the speaker. How pathetic I am, I think. But it isn't as if I can get any worse. I knock back another drink. Even with my high tolerance to alcohol, I am beginning to become incoherent. I blubber wordlessly.

"Victor Abernathy, you must be present for the Reaping.."

"No, I don't," I snarl in reply, but I trudge to my feet, knowing that isn't true. I have never had a choice.

I push past the Peacekeeper and bring my bottle, drinking as I go. The world gets fuzzier, and darker as I approach the town square, with odd glares and shines in places, like fractured glass. I catch a glimpse of Effie Trinket's pink hair. I hear a buzz of confusion. I catch a shine of gold from somewhere in the crowd, which reminds me sorely of a golden pin I would have rather forgotten.

Then maybe I was hallucinating, but I catch a glimpse of fire in someone's eyes. Even drunk, I have enough in me to be startled. I stagger to the front of the stage, alcoholic fire stirring in the pit of my stomach. I yell something, but it isn't clear. Somewhere between then and now, I drop off the stage.


	2. That Person Is Not Me

**A/N: I decided to upload the second chapter sooner than I'd planned, because I got two lovely, although short, reviews. ^.^ A big thanks to Raissa and moonlight goose!**

"Sit down! Sit down!" I say brashly, gesturing towards her seat. The girl didn't avoid my gaze or stare at me. Her gray Seam eyes glide over mine, cool as rainwater as she took her place at the table. As if I weren't even there. Well, I think, She knows her place, and it isn't above or below mine. Food was set before her and she took it only with only the slightest bitter glance.

That was only to be expected. I had just talked with the boy, and from the conversation at breakfast added to the one the day previous when he picked me up while I was drunk, I could tell that he was no victor. He was strong, sure, but he was too kind, too pure. At least he would die that way.

The thoughts stirred something akin to longing in me. I decided to stop evaluating them because it was never any use anyways. Snorting, I pull out Ripper's leftover liquor and mix it with pomegranate juice. I had found the mixture, an odd combination of sweet, sour, and alcohol, quite heartening during the previous years' Hunger Games.

"So," the girl says slowly, looking up from her food, "you're supposed to give us advice."

Her name comes to me suddenly, breaking one of my rules of the Games: not to learn their names. Oh, whoever wanted to be courageous and honor each and every dead child would do that, but that person is not me. "Here's some advice," I say to Katniss Everdeen. "Stay alive." The funny thing is, I really don't care. The words sound so hollow I burst out laughing, but I don't miss the look the tributes exchange.

"That's very funny," the boy says, quietly; calmly. But there is a hard look in his eyes.

Not even I expected him to lash out at my hand, knocking my drink and sending the glass rolling to the floor. It rattled against the floor of the train.

This is not the boy I talked to last night, something has changed. As he and the girl lean forward to look at me more clearly, I could see the difference. He looked more askew. Less rational. I punch him in the jaw and he falls from the chair, but the change had not gone.

Thinking the confrontation was over, I reach for my liquor, but they surprise me yet again. There is a whirlwind, and suddenly, a knife between my fingers.

Then _she_ flinches almost imperceptibly, but I don't move to make the hit. This girl, from the Hob, I think, isn't she quite the hunter? Her eyes shy away from mine, unconsciously, but nothing can prevent the memory of fire from leaping to my mind, and something about her takes my breath away.  
But the boy too. What was he doing? It suddenly didn't make any sense anymore. These two were walking to their deaths, so why didn't they act like it? I gather my wits and reply, "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

They both look at me like I've insulted their very beings. Who did they expect me to be? I was District 12's victor, not their hero.

The boy finally picks himself up from the floor. He goes for the ice in the fruit bowl to put on his cheek, but I stop him. "No," I object gruffly. Don't people nowadays think at all? "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," he pointed out mildly.

"Only if they catch you," I say roughly. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better."

So that was Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. Strong, but soft, yet somehow...ardent. And then there was Katniss Everdeen, the... "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" I take care to keep my voice challenging and only slightly mocking, because from what I'd seen of her so far she seemed slightly... sensitive.

Almost delicately, she picks up the knife. Then, seemingly without much effort, she sticks it into the wall, in between two panels.

"Stand over here. Both of you." I make a show of examining them with a lot of prodding and circling, treating them like common slaves. Which, to be fair, they were. They held up much more impressively than I expected; the girl stiffened at every touch, but the boy stood stolidly. He knows when to listen. And she knows when not to let down her guard. An interesting combination.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless," I tell them. "Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough." And I'm not lying when I say this. Katniss has a light grace and angled features, Peeta the easy handsome face of a model. But by Capital standards, all people would see was the dirt and the grime of the underfolk. "Alright, I'll make a deal with you," I continue. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you." I pause and let the words sink in. They both gawk for a while, so I snort and finish. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

"Fine," the boy says immediately.

The girl practically jumps at me. "So help us," she insists. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone —"  
Impulsive, I note. "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist." I hadn't even met the stylists for the Games yet, but I had heard that District 12 was getting a new stylist who had actually requested for us. That ought be interesting.

"But —"

"No buts. Don't resist." Both of them turn their eyes on me, and it seems like they are both pleading for me to do something to help. Something to change what has happened, what will happened. But I can't, and I end up stalking out of the cabin, feeling guilt like I've not felt in years.

* * *

"I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute!" the thin recorded voice cries and I watch as confusion bursts out on stage. I glance at my drunken self who seems to be reacting; I did remember sensing some of the confusion.

Watching the recording of the Reaping was all I had expected. The sister was small and fragile, crying as she heard the words. Katniss was protective and composed. The tinny voices ring back and forth.

Effie Trinket titters something about rules, but she is interrupted by the mayor. I lean in closer towards the screen.

"What does it matter?" Silence follows and no one says a word. It cuts to a close up on Katniss's face, but there are no tears. Her face is as passive as the oaken sentinels that stand in the depths of the forest. Camera-ready. It's unusual, for one to be so sensitive to the Capital audience like that.

"What does it matter?" he repeats, and it cuts back to the crowd.

They are confused and shocked, muttering, as the mayor says, "Let her come forward." And she walks, grim as if she were to be executed right there and then.

Almost unintelligible noises burst from the little girl as she screams and runs to her sister. Pleased, I note that although Katniss tugs away gently, her voice is steely. "Prim, let go," she says.

There is a slight squabble as the little girl is pulled away by a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy: Gale Hawthorn. The two hunters from the Hob.

"Let go!" she repeats, sternly, and even through the camera lens, I swear her eyes shine bright with something akin to tears.

My hands clench into fists as I watch her ascend the stage and even though I know that it is only a recording, I can feel the charge of her presence.

The crowd had been wrought astir by her: her actions, her words, her presence. She compels people's feelings. Her and that little girl. The sister is important, I note. Her value is nothing without that wisp of a sister.

The camera locks on her, so focused and clear you can see the flush on her cheeks, the shadow of the lashes on her eyes.

Then suddenly, the camera view flies and dodges, only showing small shoots. But I see what I need to see. The crowd, giving their silent memorial to Katniss, the girl who saved her sister. They touch their fingers to their lips and raise them out to her.

I lean back in the cushy Capital couch, musing. Skilled enough to fight, intelligent enough to manipulate, clever enough to live, and bright enough to shine. People looked at her and they saw something that was indescribable. As did I.

I move to turn the television off, but before I can, my own recording steps up. "Look at her!" it shouts tinnily. "Look at this one! I like her! Lots of..." it splutters and chokes, looking confused. "Spunk," it eventually musters. Finding its energy again, it hollers, "More than you! More than you!" My chin is tilted up arrogantly, and my finger is pointed straight at the camera. I am pleasantly surprised they didn't cut the scene after all. Being drunk did have its advantages, and one of them was that the general mass didn't believe you.

The film continues, but my mind does not follow past that. It lingers on Katniss' eyes — and mine. Mine are filled with alcohol; hers with fire. Maybe it wasn't so good to stay near an open flame, but I had to risk it; otherwise I would drown.


	3. The Perfect Touch of Rebellion

**A/N: Now, I don't own any of the characters from the Hunger Games, but I do own a few OCs in here, so if there's a name that you don't recognize, it's probably an OC. A sort of long-ish chapter for now. I'm trying to make them longer, but somehow I can't... . Here's the first glimpse at a few of the victors! ^.^**

"Yo, Abernathy!"

I look up. "Chaff?"

He sits besides me and laughs, low and deep-bellied. "Good to see ya again, Haymitch." He squints. "What's the occasion? I haven't seen you decked out in finery for years! Finally gotten jealous of my good looks?" He winks, shaking his stump of a hand at me.

I fix the gray tie and smooth out the wrinkles from my suit subconsciously. "No, not particularly," I answer, shaking my head. "But I've got a deal to honor this year." I laugh and smile with him, but still keep a distance.

"Oh-ho-ho!" Chaff roars. "Have ya now? Good fer you, Haymitch, good fer you."  
He's slightly drunk. I can tell, because I really wish I could be as well. But I had a deal to honor. At least that's what I was trying to tell myself.

"Here, have a drink before the kids come on out." He shakes a bottle in my face.

I practically flinch as I hear the liquor inside. Chaff was always offering me a drink, because he had nothing else to offer me. I tried not to fall into the friendship thing to deep. But still, the slosh of liquor was tantalizing.

Screw the deal. "Just a few sips," I say, and he pours me a shot.

We're sitting high in upper stories of the Training Center right next to the City Circle, where there are round dining tables covered in silken cloths and ornate hand-carved wooden chairs for the mentors and victors. Television screens are projected onto almost solid mists above each seat, live, as the actual events happen a thousand feet below.

"Here they come," Chaff mutters.

District 1 appears from around the bend, beautiful and gauzy as usual. The other follow, and despite usual disappointments, I am surprisingly eager to see what District 12 is in, because nobody – nobody – ever requests for District 12, so if it does happen, it must be ground-breaking.

Day breaks into dusk as District 11 heads out, both tributes dressed in drab earthy colors meant to represent dirt. They have flowers growing on their heads. A quick glance at the screen shows me that they are synthetic.

The crowd buzzes and hums as usual, but it's nothing special. If District 12 can make a splash to the already bored crowd…then nothing short of a miracle could occur.

The sun finally slips out of sight, but the light does not disappear. Half a second before the stadium lights turn on, a second sun rises. Ecstatic cheering meets met ears, from the crowd below and Effie Trinket who appears in the elevator.

"Aren't they just wonderful," she says, tottering around on her four inch heels excitedly. And for once, nobody can ignore her because she is right. District 12 is full of wonder, from the flickering flames on their crowns and capes to the kisses they blow and the way they clasp their hands. They are partners; a team.

Just like Maysilee and I were. I still remember everything: the coal miner's outfits we were dressed in, the black powder that had made Maysilee cough, and the way she had clutched at my hand as we rode down the aisle. But I had shaken her off. I hadn't had any other choice, in that situation. My act was to be clever and isolated, higher than the others, so I had to be that .

But there they were, those two, with hands clasped right together.

Grudgingly, I allow myself to think of the strategy behind the move, browsing through possible strategies, but I cannot think of one. Unless they plan to be allies, but even so, back-stabbing is common and unpredictable in the Games.

It makes me think of what would have happened if I hadn't refused Maysilee's hand... but if I had accepted I wouldn't have gotten my sponsors. And if I hadn't gotten my sponsors I wouldn't have won. If I hadn't won I wouldn't have been stuck in this living hell. I down another shot, anger stirring in the pit of my stomach.

I lean back in my chair and peer out the window. Chaff notices and slurs, "They look like ants down there, don' they?"

"No," I say, the alcohol working well to loosen my tongue, "ants work together. They work hard. These people, they are—" I stop there. I am still sober enough to understand what I am saying, unlike that other day at the Reaping. Then I remember the hidden ferocity in Peeta, and the fire in Katniss's eyes. So fuck that. "They are parasites."

Soft as the words are, I feel gazes lock on me. Chaff looks at me with eyes still blurred with drink, yet dawning on something between horror and admiration.

Hawkins, from District 10, perks an ear. Literally. Famous for taming two of the canine muttations in the arena and using them to slaughter the other tributes, he surgically altered two of his ears, making them furry and pointed. And able to move at will.

District 9, a middle aged woman I don't recognize turns to look at me.

An old, rather frail looking man from District 8 looks at me. Recalling his name, I believe it is Woof.

District 7's only female victor, Johanna Mason, regards me with something akin to respect.

I find no reaction from District 6, in which two morphlings sit and drool, but Angerona, from District 5, stops in mid-sentence.

Finnick Odair from District 4 pauses, halfway in between taking his shirt off, but shrugs and continues anyways.

I find a pair of thin, watery eyes watching me from District 3. Beetee, I believe his name is. Intelligence is written in his face.

And every hostile face from Districts 1 and 2 is glaring at me. Brutus, Enobaria, Poliar, Gloss, Cashmere, Topaz...but nobody is saying a word.

The moment passes quickly enough as chatter reignites, but because I'm not drunk this time, I have no vague excuse to protect me, everyone knows that the word was there. Parasite.

Because they were. They were all parasites, living for our suffrage, surviving from our blood. Despicable, the lot of them.

I shake my head, because I haven't had thoughts like this for a while. Maybe it is because I haven't had the time to contact Plutarch yet, or maybe it's the alcohol, but rebellion stirred in the pit of my stomach, coursed through my veins and set my lungs on fire. Oh wait, no, that was the alcohol.

"Ah, Haymitch, was it?"

I look up at the speaker, nonchalantly. Good thing I can still act. "Yeah. What do you want from me, Finnick Odair?"

He flashes a perfect, white-toothed smile. "May I take a seat?"

I shrug. "I don't see why not."

"Lovely. Now. Oh — er, Hawkins! Over here!" Finnick gestures for the District 10 victor to come over, and he does. I notice that as he walks his toe, touches the ground first, like a cat's. He takes his seat without a word.

We all stare at each other for a while, a tense silence lying thickly between us, until Finnick jerks his chin towards the window, gesturing towards the mist screen, which is displaying pictures of Katniss and Peeta, smiling and elated and says, "I see you're doing alright this year. Is that why you're dressed up?"

"I don't see why I have to answer that question," I reply.

"You don't," he says, before leaning in to me and whispering, "let me tell you that Hawkins and I have taken an interest in your Katniss this year." Hawkins doesn't react at all; he just continues staring at me with those hunted eyes.

"So? What do you have to do with me?" I growl.

He looks at me. "Please," he says, but I can barely understand him. His words are muffled through thick canine teeth. "A real action should ignite these efforts."

Finnick nods. "We would like to meet with you sometime. We're both mentoring this year anyways so we'll have time to talk." He winks, and leans forward as if to continue the conversation in more depth, but Hawkins gets up and leaves suddenly, so Finnick, looking slightly surprised, shrugs and leaves with him.

Chaff frowns. "That wolf-man unnerves me. Hardly ever says a word."

"Mm." I have to agree. I have never seen him talking to Finnick before, or anyone, for that matter; the fact that the two seem to be acquainted well was odd. I made a mental note to be wary of the two.

The music is cut off suddenly as the chariots come to a stop. President Snow begins the welcome, and it is broadcast throughout the tower. "Welcome, Citizens of Panem," it booms, and the whole room hushes respectfully. We victors of all people know when the time to show respect is.

I don't actually listen to the random words that President Snow says. I had never listened anyways, even after Snow had destroyed my life. Finally, he stops and the chariots continue.

The camera cuts to District 12 more than necessary, I note, pleased. I have to talk to the new stylists, I decide. I would meet them at dinner, more likely than not.

The District 12 chariot finally disappears into the Training Center. The other mentors and victors slowly file out as well, most likely going to prep for the first dinner with the tributes and stylists.

* * *

The dinner was proceeding reasonably enough, and the two stylists were clever, for sure. It seemed, however, that most of the ideas came from the male stylist, Cinna. I would keep an eye on him; he was intelligent and not affected by most of the Capital madness, but I still didn't know what he could turn out to be.

The whole easy atmosphere was ruined by Katniss's sudden outburst.

She had been relatively quiet the entire meal, just concentrating on eating. Which was perfectly reasonable. But she must not have been quite in her right mind if she was idiotic enough to be proclaiming that she knew an Avox.

"What makes it burn? It is alcohol?" she had said.

Cinna had opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, she had continued stupidly, "I wa — oh! I know you!"

And all eyes had flashed to her, still looking confused.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?" Effie Trinket snaps. "The very thought."

And of course she replies, "What's an Avox?"

I decide to lend a helping hand and see where she goes with it. A mistake like this could potentially cost her the Games, and in result, her life, if the word got out that she had known an Avox. "Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue off so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort," I explain helpfully. If she can't a way out of this, then she may as well die now, because she'll have no chance in the Games, or as a victor. "Not likely you'd know her," I add as a bonus.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," Effie Trinket fusses. "Of course, you don't really know her."

I can tell she isn't going to recover. "No, I guess not. I just — "

"Delly Cartwright," Peeta says suddenly, and the attention of the table swivels again. "That's who it is.

I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

Now, Peeta is a very good liar. In fact, I wouldn't even have noticed he was lying if I hadn't already known the Cartwrights.

Both had been Maysilee's friends while we were growing up, and as much as I had tried to ignore her back then, I had noticed Rob Cartwright and Randa Whitmore just because they were constantly hanging around her and I couldn't help but eavesdrop several times, even though I couldn't stand Whitmore's annoying cheeriness. I know that the two fell in love and married, very peacefully. Most importantly, I know their daughter has thin, straw-yellow hair, completely unlike the Avox's.  
Which was odd, considering Peeta and Katniss had just agreed that she had Delly Cartwright's hair. I narrow my eyes.

But the Capitalists relax. "Oh well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut.

There are a few more compliments about the food, before we move into a sitting room to watch a replay of the opening ceremonies.

Again, I try to contemplate what the hand holding could be helpful for. Suddenly, a thought jumps into my head. "Whose idea was the hand holding?" I ask.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

I nod. That made sense. "Just the perfect touch of rebellion. Very nice." It had nothing to do with help or winning sponsors or beating the other tributes. I scrutinize Cinna, but his attention is attuned to the screen.

I wait for a while longer, then dismiss the tributes. They both leave, rather eagerly, it seems, although perhaps they don't notice. The Capitolists start discussing costume designs and decor, so I wait, patiently as I can, until that talk dies down. I am never any use in that kind of a discussion, but I understand its necessity.

Finally, Portia asks, "What are Katniss and Peeta going for, anyways?"

"Absolutely not charming for Katniss," Effie Trinket titters, "her manners are horrid. The first day she came on the train, she ate half the meal with her fingers, and not to mention — "

"Oh, shut up," I say blandly, and she flushes and glares at me angrily, but I ignore her. "Peeta can do charming. Or humorous."

They all nod their agreement, except Effie, who is still snidely trying to ignore me, but she keeps shooting angry little glances from the corners of her eyes.

"Well," I continue, "we'll find out later anyways. We won't need to worry too much about that yet. We do need to figure out what they are going to do about their training."

"If that's the case," Effie Trinket huffs, "then you won't need me here. I'll just go now." And she storms out the door like that'll make a difference. Pretentious Capitalist.

Portia sighs. "Someone ought to go after her. Calm her down a bit."

I raise an eyebrow. "Why?"

She looks at me irritably and mutters something about drunks, then walks out the door as well.  
I shrug. All the better to talk to Cinna alone, which was what I had been trying to get from the beginning.

"If you want my opinion, I think Katniss and Peeta would be better off continuing to stick together and present themselves as allies," Cinna inputs quietly. "I've got them the same uniform for tomorrow."

"Do you know what that will do?" I ask roughly, settling back in my seat.

"I have a hazy idea." There is a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, but it is friendly.

"Hm."

He blinks, perhaps confused by my animosity. "I believe it will make them stand out."

"Do you think that will earn them sponsors? Intimidate the other tributes?" I ask, not sure what the response will be.

"In no way at all."

"Interesting," I reply, beginning to like Cinna. Although I don't dare get close to him. Nothing good ever comes of that._ I know what you're trying to do,_ I try to tell him with my eyes. _And no good comes of it._

His eyes narrow, like he understood my message. But there's something defiant in them, something that I know and recognize; something that I used to have. But it was long gone, for as long as I was sober. It was the thing that made me call out during the Reaping, the thing that made Cinna design robes of flame and Peeta help Katniss in time of need.

The thing that made Maysilee reach out for my hand. I flinch inwardly, but nothing in my demeanor shows it. "I ought to go now," I say abruptly.

He looks at me. "I ought to go now as well."

I nod. "We'll talk some other time."

"For sure."

He walks away, quite quickly, flicking off the lights as he leaves. The room grows dark and filled with shadows. A few candles in the corners of the room, lit for decoration, flicker ominously. I wait until his footsteps cannot be heard anymore. "Hawkins, how long have you been listening?"

The unnervingly soft pad of his footsteps comes from behind me, so I turn around, but I can barely see his swaying figure; it blends in with the moving shadows of the room. "Not long."

"You are spying. That is not only illegal, but incredibly offensive. Why are you here? Is Finnick with you?" I say suspiciously.

"No."

"Leave now then. I doubt we discussed anything that will help your tributes win," I say. He is actually disturbing me, something not easily done after all I've seen. I've always known that he is not prone to a lot of words, but his curt answers don't give much away.

"You are important."

I snort. "I am? I've been around for years. Why now?"

"Hm. We must meet later. The hour is late." I see his ears flick. "I must be gone."

He is gone before I can comprehend. "Good bye," I mutter sarcastically under my breath. It all seemed just like a dream. I shake my head. It really was getting late.


	4. Don't Speak At All

**A/N: I've been working like crazy these past few days, and I've been so busy, but I'm trying to keep to updating every three days (although that will impossible once school starts). **

**I hope it doesn't seem like that plot's moving too fast; it's just that this isn't canon so I can't add a lot of OCs and extra, Haymitch-central plot without really messing up what happens in CF and MJ. Thanks so much for reading and please review!**

**Thanks to Raissa, who is leaving me wonderful reviews! :D**

Thoughts from the previous night still linger in my head, and I can't get it to clear. I sigh, and harshly order a flask of hard liquor from my room service. It appears almost immediately. I snag it and make my way irritably to meet the tributes for breakfast. I would have liked not to, but I had made them a deal, and meant to keep it.

I meet Peeta on the way there, and he greets me, so I manage to politely return the greeting as well. We don't speak at all past that, walking down the hall in silence.

I let them eat for a while, because talking strategy always consumes one's attention and both need energy for what they are going to face. Finally, I take a long pull from my flask, and begin. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now." I had a notion to deny them that choice before, but in the end, I decided that if they wanted to be coached separately, then so be it, however much the "allies angle" could be destroyed.

"Why would you coach us separately?" Katniss asks.

It's always Katniss asking questions, I notice. Peeta doesn't usually start off with them. "Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about."

"I don't have any secret skills," Peeta admits instantly. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."

Hm. That already told me much. Squirrels were fast, small, hard to detect and even harder to catch. Perhaps the girl from the Hob was more the hunter than she seemed. Whether with snare or arrow, squirrels were impressive.

"You can coach us together," says Katniss. Peeta nods his agreement.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do." I already have some idea of what they can do.

One glance and I can see that Peeta's muscular arms are already lined with burn scars from working the in bakery, and they flex impressively. And I have seen Katniss and her partner drag deer into the Hob before. That was impressive enough by itself.

"I can't do anything," Peeta says, evidently intent of downplaying himself. I make note of that too. "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really. But I can hunt," is the reply. "With a bow and arrow."

I have never seen her with a bow and arrows before, but I assumed she hid it somewhere out in the woods. Another thought comes to me: She would have a lot of survival skills already, especially in wooded terrain. That could be crucial. "And you're good?"

I can see that Peeta wants to answer for her as she pauses, thinking. "I'm all right."

"She's excellent," says Peeta before she can say anymore. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer."

"What are you doing?" Katniss asks sharply.

"What are you doing?" Peeta shoots back. "If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself."

"What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people."  
Their argument — if it could be called that — goes on in the same kind of tone for a while. I have to admit, I am surprised by Katniss. Peeta not so much. He had a different kind of quality around Katniss. But she had never returned the favor. I am lost in thought for a moment, ignoring the two. Then, suddenly —

Oh.

That explained it: the reason Peeta was so different around her. I decided I would have to talk to Peeta later. Not to mention change my whole plan. If that what I thought was true then there were a few ways to deal with it, and I could use some of them to their advantages. Hopefully. It might end up killing them both.

Suddenly, there is a silence, so I break it. "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," she mutters, still looking down.

"That may be significant in terms of food. And, Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" I say.

Acting on my earlier decision, I say, "One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute." They both start to protest, but I slam my hand on the table. They shut up immediately, but Katniss still looks resentful. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

Katniss storms out the door. Peeta somberly tries to do the same, but I stop him. "Peeta, I would like to talk to you. Alone."

"I thought you weren't coaching us separately," he says.

"I'm not. I need to talk to you, and I'll be blunt about this, because you really can't afford to be like this."

Peeta raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"You're in love with Katniss."

There's a stunned silence.

"You're. In love. With Katniss," I repeat firmly. "And that won't work."

Still no reply. I sigh.

I lean over the table across from him, knowing that I'm probably the last person he needs to hear this from. Neither of the District 12 tributes don't really seem to trust me completely still, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. "I know it seems like you can't help it," I growl, "but you are young and you haven't seen _anything_ yet. There are moments when you can help it. And in the arena, there will be moments when you feel like you can kill her for what she's going to do to you. Now I am giving you three days during the Training to help you clear your mind and figure what exactly you want to do. You cannot tell her; that will only get both of you killed. But — "

"No."

I raise an eyebrow.

"I," he says brokenly, "I can't." And he turns and runs, the doors swinging shut behind him.

* * *

"Haymitch Abernathy?"

I don't recognize the voice, but it sounds friendly enough. Not that that meant anything. Still, I force a grin and turn to look at the speaker.

It's a Gamemaker.

Distaste immediately runs through me. I had been sauntering around the balcony around the gymnasium, watching Katniss and Peeta train and picking through fine wines set up on a banquet table. I had been minding my own business. And now someone, a Gamemaker, no less, was muddling his way into_ my business_. Still, it wouldn't hurt to come off as polite. "Ah, yes. And you are Gamemaker...?"

"Plutarch Heavensbee," he says with a flashy white toothed smile. "Here, come sit. I'd like to talk to you."

I sit.

"You made quite the splash at the opening ceremony. I myself truly loved the idea. I mean, fire seems so dangerous. How did your stylist pull that one off?" He pulls over two wine glasses.

I graciously accept one. "Synthetic."

"Synthetic flames? Impressive."

I shrug. "Not particularly. They're planning something better for the interview."

"Well, well. Aren't we confident?" he says cheerily. I ignore him. "Shouldn't spoil too much; word will get around and then people won't be surprised anymore."

I reach for the bottle of Chateau Petrus and break it open, pouring its contents into both our glasses.

"Petrus? You have good taste in wines."

I raise an eyebrow. "It's one of the most expensive kinds around."

He sips and closes his eyes in appreciation. "And that makes it bad?"

"Oftentimes, expensive wines tend to taste better than not," I point out dryly, taking a sip myself. It tastes almost like every other wine I've ever had; not that I am a big wine-taster. Any alcohol will usually do for me, so long as somewhere along the line I can lose consciousness. Because that is what drinking is all about, isn't it?

"Ah, but Petrus is one of my favorites."

The conversation peters out from there, and we both sip and stare. And sip. He leans over and refills our glasses.

"Now," Plutarch says suddenly, "what I really wanted to talk you about is your Katniss."

"Just Katniss?" I ask, leaning back in my chair.

He toys with the stem of his wineglass. "I want to know if you think she can win. I know you've already started out a lot better than you usually do, and I see that you're already more...cleaned up. But is she good enough to win?"

I look at Katniss and Peeta practicing at the hand to hand combat area, considering. I watch as Katniss deflects a few hits before being hit with a vicious uppercut by the trainer, who apologizes lightly. The trainer then moves on to Peeta. A few minutes of light sparring later, Peeta uses the same trick on the trainer, sending him flying a few feet. I shrug. "None of your business."

There's a long pause. His eyes are narrowed, good humor gone. "What about you?"

"What?"

He taps his fingers impatiently against the table. "You seem a lot better this year," he says, cheerily again.

It's my turn to narrow my eyes in suspicion. "And that's a good thing," I say slowly.

"Of course! It's wonderful. I've never thought the best of you, Haymitch, and now I think it's just because you never cleaned up your act. Now that you have, I can really see who you really are, and I think I'd like to get to know you better. Somewhere private," Plutarch adds.

"That..." I notice his fingers tapping on the table have a pattern. **TAP, TAP, TAP. TAP, tap-TAP, tap. Tap-tap-tap. **

He pulls out a pen and writes down a number on a napkin. "Look, this is the number to my room. We could have a chat sometime, hm?" A sudden movement sends the pen skittering off the table. "Ah — pick that up for me, would you?"

I pick it up, and make as if to hand it back, but Plutarch says, "Oh, keep it. I've got tons of those things anyways." So I pocket it. "Anyways, here my number, give me a call; it's a very secure line, so we can talk freely."

"And I would want to talk to you, why?"

He looks at me oddly. "Percentage-wise, any reason, any situation is truly...essential."

It takes me a moment, but I understand his message. It's referring to my streak of rebellion from the Training Center. Parasite. Vaguely, I realized that Hawkins had used it that day as well. _"Please, a real action should ignite these efforts," he had said. _

A Gamemaker, however. In rebellion? It was suspicious. "Fine." I take the napkin, folding it and pocketing it next to the pen.


	5. Waiting to be Found

**A/N: Just watched Inception for the hundredth time, it is still ah-mazing. ^_^ Anyways, enjoy this chapter; I did try to make it longer! Oh, and review please! I'd love some sort of opinion? :/ But anything will do. Thanks!**

**And I decide to add a bit to the summary because I just realized how awfully boring it sounded. I thought keeping it simple would be better, but I don't think it was working. :P Tell me if you think that was a bad idea. **

Two days pass without much event. Well, not much. I notice oddities, but they are pretty much normal in the preparation for the Games. I notice Katniss has taken interest in a little girl from District 11 named Rue, and I especially note the protectiveness, because it would be important in the Games.

Peeta has been doing well at being just another scared tribute from District 12, despite being handsome and strong. He blends in well. Katniss on the other hand...I suppose it is a good thing.

It's the day of the private sessions with the Gamemakers. I can hope that both of them will do decently, but of course, I have never seen their skills at their best either, so I don't know how the Gamemakers will judge them. But if there is something that I know, it's that District 12 never has had it easy with this one. The Gamemakers get tired. My only hope is that Peeta could use that inborn charming quality, or Katniss her alluring nature. But I doubt either of them can produce such a thing while not under the right circumstances.

The two stylists and Effie are in the sitting room, chatting. I go to join them, but I don't say anything. Searching for some alcohol, I pace the room while chatter flies around.

"I think they'll do fine, Effie," Portia assures. "Haymitch's has been planning a strategy, right?"  
I grunt.

Effie Trinket is nervously fixing her bright pink hair. "All the tributes I've ever escorted have always gotten bad scores!" she frets. "And we were doing so well this year."

"Katniss can pull it off," says Cinna calmly.

"And so can Peeta," Portia adds, "so stop worrying, will you?"

They continuing chattering, and I get an Avox to get me wine because they don't have anything less fancy to order. She brings it over a few moments later, and I randomly notice that it's Miss "Delly Cartwright." She opens the bottle, bobs a curtsy, and leaves.

I'm halfway through when the elevator dings and Peeta comes walking out. The set of his mouth expresses his disappointment.

"How was it?" asks Portia.

Peeta just frowns. "Aggravating. It was like no one was paying attention."

"It's always like that," I say, waving my hand in dismissal. "What did you actually do?"

"Nothing much. Seriously, I just tossed around a few heavy objects for a while, just like you told me to.

And what are you doing with that?" he accuses, pointing at the bottle in my hand. "You promised us you'd stay sober."

"I promised I'd stay sober enough to help you," I correct, taking another swig. "So I'm helping you. How were their reactions?"

"Nothing. They just weren't interested at all."

I sigh. "Nothing we can do about it then. You'll get an average score. Don't worry too much about it; it'll keep you protected in a way."

"Okay. I think I'll go rest now." He still doesn't look quite satisfied.

I knew what it felt like. It felt raw and helpless, yet there really wasn't anything anyone could do. No one I knew, anyhow. Perhaps there was someone out there though, just waiting to be found. Once upon a time, I had thought that person was me.

The conversation around the sitting room dies down a bit, quiet with thought. Even Effie Trinket shuts up for once.

After a while, suddenly there's another ding at the elevator. We all wait for Katniss to come and walk into the sitting room as well, but there's a flurry of footsteps and she runs past the sitting room to her room. I catch a glimpse of her face. It is streaked with tears.

Immediately, we're all up, shouting Katniss' name. Effie runs to her door and tells her to open up for a while, and Portia looks slightly lost, but Cinna backs off, probably knowing that Katniss just needs space.

Peeta wanders out of his room, looking around at us all. "What's wrong?" he asks.

I just shrug, and Cinna goes to talk with him. After a moment, Peeta just sighs and goes back to his room, brow furrowed like something is paining him.

Eventually Effie stops trying, and that's when I walk up and knock, loudly and obnoxiously. "Katniss!" I call.

"Go away!" is the muffled sob I get in reply.

"If you keep this up, the last possibilities of you staying alive will probably diminish to none."

The only replies are more sobbing.

My lip curls in disdain. The girl would have no chance, like this. I thought she was stronger than that. Whatever she did, she must have done for a reason. And if she couldn't believe in her own reasons — if she didn't think about them — then she didn't have any chance at all.

It wasn't as if anything would happen to her. The Gamemakers just couldn't do anything at this point in the preparation for the Games. Nothing would happen, but she just couldn't figure out because she wouldn't stop to think.

She must have let her own anger control her. After just one week, I already understood pretty much all of her motives. A lot of it was too emotional. It would be a weakness in the Games. I slam my fist on her door one more time.

* * *

We're all sitting around the table when Katniss comes in. Nobody makes a comment, but the atmosphere changes suddenly. Of course, not in a way that Katniss can notice.

Somebody tries making small talk so I go along with it, not paying much attention to what I'm saying.

We eat, Katniss picking at her food, and I watch Peeta watch Katniss, remembering the sound of his voice as he cried No, from the last time I brought up that topic. I wonder how he is dealing with this.  
Finally, I make up my mind at how to get Katniss to accept what she did. The best way was, of course, to get her angry, so she would see things just how they were.

"Okay, enough small talk," I say, "just how bad were you today?"

I was talking to Katniss, but Peeta goes in again, to give her more time to find her own words. "I don't know that it matter. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

"And you, sweetheart?" I ask, knowing what her reaction to that would be.

She narrows her eyes fractionally in offense, but says, "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

I freeze in sudden surprise and all the motion at the table stops with me. "You what?" Effie gasps in horror.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just...I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" she cries.

After hearing her little speech, my mind rationally moves back to all the reasons why no harm would come of it, and I repeat them in my head. After, all I can think is: Of course she did. Typical. I manage to unfreeze and shrug.

"And what did they say?" says Cinna. He looks rather hesitant to ask.

"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that."

I am not sure whether that is a good or a bad thing, but I am impressed, despite the crushed look she is wearing now that her slight outburst is over. "Well, that's that," I say dismissively, going back to eating.

Katniss looks almost confused. "Do you think they'll arrest me?" she asks.

"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage," I say matter-of-factly.

"What about my family?" she says. "Will they punish them?"

"Don't think so," I reply assuredly. "Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. But they can't since it's secret, so it's be a waste of effort. More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," Peeta says.

"Very true," I say absentmindedly. I realize that now that I can relax about Katniss, my appetite has grown. I pick up a pork chop with my fingers and dunk it in my wine, ignoring Effie's frown. I chuckle. "What were their faces like?"

I see a smile start to grow in her face. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."

I laugh, and the energy at the table rises with it.

"Well, it serves them right," Effie Trinket says, to everyone's surprise. "It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you." I am starting to appreciate her words until she glances around like she's said something wrong and adds, "I'm sorry, but that's what I think," to no one in particular. It's offensive, but only offensive like how all Capital things are.

"I'll get a very bad score," Katniss points out. I agree that it will probably happen, but for some reason,

I feel that for a Gamemaker, Plutarch for example, seeing Katniss shoot that arrow would be nothing less than impressive. She had fire in her eyes.

"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," says Portia.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," says Peeta dryly. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot."

Katniss cracks a full smile at him, but I believe I am the only one who notices the look he gives her back.

* * *

District 1's male tribute, Marvel, is the first face that shows up. He gets the score of nine. There's is a sort of grim silence from our group. And then District 1's girl, Glimmer. Eight.

The numbers and faces flash on and on. Ten. Ten. Six. Five. Seven. Nine. The Career Tributes are scoring high, but not abnormally high. Most are scoring a four or a five. The girl from 11, the tiny one whom I noticed was always watching Katniss, gets a seven, so I decide that if Katniss decides to ally with her after all to just let her do it.

Then it's Peeta's face that flashes up, and the room hushes in anticipation. Eight. I nod. Strength certainly wasn't to be underestimated.

Katniss tenses up. Her face flashes on screen, and then —

Eleven.

I give her a clap on the back in congratulations.

"There must be a mistake. How...how could that happen?" she says, in the midst of the others' joyous cries.

"Guess they liked your temper," I reply. "They've got a show to put on. They need players with some heat."

"Katniss, the girl who was on fire," Cinna says, a little dreamily, giving Katniss a hug. "Oh, wait until you see your interview dress."

Katniss looks at him curiously. "More flames?"

"Of a sort." He grins.

I have no doubt that it will be stunning, having already seen a bit of Cinna's genius. The eleven on the other hand...it will obviously earn her sponsors, but as for what happens in the Games, I cannot say.

* * *

"I need to talk to you."

I pause in midstep, my hand on the handle of the door leading into my room, and turn around, raising an eyebrow. "So now you come to me. After denying me once?"

Peeta raises his chin defiantly. "Yes. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

"I rather figured," I say dryly. "Come on in."

The door clicks open, and I stride in. Peeta follows more cautiously, acting as if he were entering another world entirely. I can tell by his expression that he is surprised at how normal it looks. Completely unlike my home in the Victor's Village.

"It's...it's rather nice," he says.

I snort. "Yeah, well, it wouldn't be if I didn't let in cleaning staff in all the time. There's no way to keep the damn people out. Now, you. Katniss. Have you decided? Which is more important: your life, or hers?"

He sits down the edge of the bed, hunching over like an old man. Like Atlas, who carries the weight of the sky on his shoulders. "I love her," he says simply. "I've loved her for forever and I don't doubt that for a second."

"Not just a schoolboy crush?" I sneer mockingly, almost regretting the words after they come out of my mouth. I like Peeta, but he must make his decisions, and soon. Yet that was quite harsh.

He doesn't even flinch. "No. I would die for her. But I can't just...give up and die. Well." He sighs. "Do you know what I mean?"

"Hm. No."

"You're not helping," Peeta says, blue eyes steely and frustrated. "You said you would help."

"I can't help you sort out your feelings," I tell him bluntly. "I'm trying to help you in the Games. Now, if you just want to die, then so be it." I pause. "If I may say so myself, you should try to live."

This creates a thoughtful silence from the other end. He doesn't seem like he is going to reply anytime soon, so I find the mouthpiece on the wall of my room and order a glass of wine. And a cup of tea for good measure.

When I get back, I offer him the tea. He accepts it, but slightly distractedly. "So?" I say.

"I have a plan."

I raise an eyebrow.


	6. If not a Tribute, If not a Victor

**A/N: Hm, I always wanted to write a bit with Haymitch and Cinna. The result is quite different than I thought it would be...but I quite like it. Hope you do too. Reviews are also good for the soul, so... :D**

**I also made a teensy bit of edits. But they're not really important. Well, sort of, but not ****_really._**** Okay, enjoy! ^.^**

Peeta and Effie are sitting at the dining room table chatting softly when I arrive there in the morning. And I had thought I was early.

"Morning."

Effie, unable to be rude, replies, "Good morning," with a fake smile plastered over her face.

I vaguely dig into the lamb stew as Peeta explains. "I've just filled Effie in about our plan."

"Our plan?" I look at him. "Mostly yours."

"Well you helped a lot, so I give you credit." He waves a hand. "It doesn't matter. Now we've only got to tell Katniss."

"Oh," Effie twitters, "She won't take it too badly. Being coached separately isn't too much of an abnormality."

She hasn't been filled in on the whole plan, evidently. "Anyways— oh, here's Katniss."

Katniss wanders up with a plate. "Good morning." She goes right to eating.

Conversation dies down, Peeta a bit nervous about telling her. I see him open his mouth a few times, as if to explain, but he closes it and shrugs every time. Effie evidently doesn't really care about announcing the news, and to be honest, neither do I.

Eventually, she seems to realize no one is saying a word. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," I say.

She looks around. "You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat at the same time."

"Hm. Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," I say.

"What's that?" she asks. There's this confused look on her face, as if she hadn't remembered any sort of strategy at all. Like she'd been reminiscing and had forgotten about the seriousness of the Games.

I shrug. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately." He glances at me.

Her expression closes off immediately. "Good," she replies. "So what's the schedule?"

Peeta looks almost relieved. "You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation," I say, "and four with me for content. You start with Effie, Katniss."

She nods. "Sure."

"Alright. Let's get started. Peeta, we're going to the sitting room."

He follows me patiently, but when we get there I find that there's not a lot to talk about. "You've got it all figured out already, haven't you?" I say. "Well, at least you'll be appealing to the audience along with it. You have a sort of natural likable quality."

"Do I? That's nice to know," he says.

"Start with an anecdote," I suggest, "something to connect you with the audience somehow, then start getting into the plan."

He thinks. "Can I practice?"

"That's what I'm here for."

We knock off an hour with that, Peeta rehearsing all the minute gestures and points he wants to make with me correcting him when he starts to wander off topic. Once we get into the second hour, even he starts running out of things to perfect. "I think you've got it."

"But what if I get distracted? What if the audience doesn't like it at all? What if Katniss..." He trails off, forehead is creased with worry lines.

I purse my lips. I wish I could comfort him but...this was the Capital, after all, and any of those things could happen. Especially Katniss. "It doesn't matter. You can take the rest of the morning off, if you'd like."

"No, I'll just brood. Anything you want to add? Any last minute suggestions for staying alive?" He gives me half a grin.

I find it surprisingly pleasant to just chat with Peeta. We don't talk about anything in particular, but I have never spoken to any tribute like this before. Usually I keep a distance, a rule of mine as a mentor of District 12 tributes, but Peeta has drawn me in as much as Katniss. This time I feel that I actually have something to lose. I just don't know what that is yet.

Lunch arrives, and we both go back to the dining room. It's quite a scene. Effie looks ready to tear her hair out, and Katniss is acting like a spitting alley cat.

Peeta looks at me, an eyebrow raised. "Is Effie really that bad?"

I think for a moment. "No. It's just Katniss." I roll my eyes. "I can see the next few hours are going to fly by on gilded wings," I say sarcastically.

* * *

After lunch I direct Katniss to the sitting room and tell her to sit on the couch. I am about to begin when I realize I've got no idea what to do. The opposite situation of what I had with Peeta, Katniss could be anything. But I have to be careful. That "anything" could turn on her as easily as help her, so...

"What?" she snaps.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," I explain. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors."

"What's Peeta's approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?" she says.

"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," I say. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across as sullen and hostile." Honestly, even after I say it I don't want to take the words back, because they are true. Katniss has done enough to catch my eye, but nothing to please me.

"I do not!" she denies.

"Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven't seen her before or since," I say.

She glares at me. "And you've given me so many reasons to be cheery."

"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you," I point out. "So pretend I'm the audience. Delight me."

"Fine!" she snarls.

I can tell that the four hours in the morning with Effie have done nothing to improve Katniss's temper. Her answers start out tense and gradually turn bitter, until eventually it just dissolves into something like outright fury. Exasperation builds up in me, much as I try to kick it back down. If this girl couldn't get over a bit of anger, at me, no less, then she wouldn't stand a chance anywhere else: in the Games, in the Capital. Not even in the woods of District 12. Emotions would have to be controlled.

"All right, enough," I say finally. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Katniss."

"But I don't want them to!" she whines. "They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!"

"Then lie! Make something up!" I say.

"I'm not good at lying."

I snort. "Well you better learn fast. You've got as much charm as a dead slug."

The moment after I say it, I know I've finally gone too far. Quelling my anger, I say a little more softly, "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."

"Humble," she echoes.

"That you can't believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole thing's been more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna's clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."

She tries.

She really can't gush. We'll just try a different approach, I think. No worries. "How about you try being cocky? Arrogant. Act like you're better than the rest of the tributes; inspire confidence. Then when you're in the Games, so long as you prove yourself right, they'll go for you. So try it."

She tries.

She really, really can't. I play her fierce, but she has a vulnerable quality that messes it up. She isn't clever enough for witty.

Soon, I figure out that I was very wrong when I thought that she could be anything. It seems that she isn't anything. I eventually crack and start drinking. It doesn't seem possible, but she isn't funny or sexy or mysterious or — "I give up, sweetheart," I snarl nastily. "Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."

I stagger out into the hallway, half drunk and slightly despairing.

* * *

The hallways are empty and dark, the lights all turned off. Echoes ring and shadows are long. I slump in a corner nursing a bottle of wine, letting out the occasional angry mutter. "Damn..." I groan.

The lights flicker on suddenly, warning me of the approach of another person. I am, however, more preoccupied with the sudden stab of pain in my eyes. Squinting, I try to figure out who is the blurry figure standing in front of me.

Ah. "Hello Cinna," I slur.

He sighs. "Haymitch, you haven't been drinking again?"

"Of course I have," I say with a slight hiccup. "Can't you see?" I wave my bottle at him.

He hauls me to my feet. "Why are you drinking? I thought you agreed not to get drunk for Peeta and Katniss's sakes."

"It's because of Katniss," I snarl. I stagger a bit, woozy.

"And what's wrong with Katniss?" Cinna asks quietly.

I shake my head. "S-She stubborn. Isn't anything. She's going to fail the interview, and so the Games are lost, especially with Peeta—"

I stop there, coming slightly to my senses. No, I can't talk about Peeta's unfortunately timed love for Katniss. That would be...untasteful on my part. Luckily, Cinna doesn't push it.

"Look, if I deal with Katniss, will you sober up?"

I hiccup. "Sober up?" I repeat.

"Yes."

"Sure why not?" I laugh and lurch forward. Cinna puts a hand on my chest to keep me from falling on my face entirely, but something falls from the pocket of my jacket and clatters to the ground. He leans me against the wall and picks it up.

The Gamemaker's pen. He examines it slowly. "This...is this Plutarch Heavensbees's?"

"What?" I say vaguely, swinging my head from side to side. "Yeah, so?"

He pulls out an identical one, waving it in my face, but I just stare at him blankly. "Haymitch. Focus," says Cinna.

"What?" I slur in an offended tone. "I'm foooowoah! — cusing." I almost tip over again, but Cinna lifts me back up half-distractedly.

"Did Plutarch Heavensbee give you this pen?" he questions.

"Yes. He's trying to start a rebellion."

Cinna's eyes flash with confusion. "He's trying to start a rebellion?" he repeats.

I chuckle. "Look, he basically spelled it out for me with an acronym. Parasite. Rebellion. You know? Hah. But I don't have to want to be part of what he's doing. I don't trust him. It could be an elaborate plot to check our loyalty."

He looks around nervously, but I have already slumped to the floor again. This time he doesn't move to catch me, just crouching down besides me. "Come on," he murmurs urgently, "Let's get out of this hallway."

I somehow manage to walk or crawl or something to the place where he directs me to: his room. It was more private than the hallway, for sure. Especially since Cinna's room would be less likely to be bugged than mine. "So...what?"

Cinna shakes his head. "Right. I had Beetee of District Three take the pen apart for me. It has a microphone embedded into it, and a receiver. I think it's a communication device of some sorts. But there's some kind of pressure sensitive code.

A thought occurs to me. "There was a code. Something he was tapping..."

"Oh! Yes, morse code. I looked it up. It's from the Dark Days." He shuffles around in his jacket distractedly. There's a bit of rustling as he explains. "It uses dots and dashes — dits and dahs — to symbolize different numerals, as far as I can tell. Give me a moment." He shuffles for a moment longer then pulls a sheaf of papers out.

"Look. I wrote this down when I noticed him doing it." He lays a paper in front of me. It's too blurry for me to read anyways. "It goes dah-dit-dah, dah-dit-dah-dit, dit-dit-dit. Or in other words, KCS."  
I don't quite understand his point. I'm not even sure that he's making one. "Look, I get it. Plutarch Heavensbee is trying to start something. I doubt he's gotten anywhere though."

"It's the code for the pen!"

"Of course it is genius," I say dryly. "I was talking about why you're even trying in the first place."

He gives me a long, measured look. "Do you know why I requested for your District?"

"No. I thought about it for a while, then I figured perhaps it was best if I just didn't care." I let the words linger challengingly.

"You might want to care. I don't have a reason to hate the Capital, but I can see how it must be changed. And you need people like me in that way. You need people like Plutarch Heavensbee. He has power that you won't even be able to touch," he says quietly.

"Fine. So you're an idealist. What will that do?"

"Don't tell me you've given up."

I pause. Have I given up? Given up what? My fight against the Capital? My happiness? My life? "I haven't given up."

He nods. "Then trust me like how you trust me with Katniss. Try it. Despite the fact that most of us Capitalists disappoint, you need people like me. And maybe Plutarch." He presses the pen to the paper, writing KCS in morse code.

— o —  
— o — o  
o o o

Nothing happens for a moment, then —

"Voice recognition settings," a recorded female voice says. "Please state your name."

My senses suddenly come back to life as adrenaline kicks in and the first thing I do is snatch the pen and smash it on the ground. Cinna gives me an aghast look and reaches for it, but my boot grinds it to pieces, barely missing his fingers.

"A trap," I growl, heart thundering. "Asking for a name? It can't be more obvious than that."

Cinna takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "It might not be."

"How blindly trusting can you be?" I say. "Fine. Fine! You've still got mine, haven't you? Have fun with it."

He scowls, the most negative emotion I've seen from him so far and pulls out the pen again, writing the code. I grumpily go sit in a corner and watch. "Voice recognition settings," it says again, and this time when it asks for his name he replies, "Cinna."

"Setting saved." It hums for a while, then falls silent.

Cinna throws a look over to me. "Nothing harmful seems to have happened."

I snort. "Don't be naive. It could have sent that to Heavensbee already. He could be sending people to arrest you this instant."

"Nonetheless," says Cinna, "Something good might come out of it as well."

"You don't bet on something," I spit. "Something could kill you. Easily, without a second thought.

Something could destroy your family and friends, could cost Katniss and Peeta their lives. Of course, what do you care about Katniss—"

"I do care about Katniss." There's quiet anger in his voice, but it is still never raised over a firm statement. "I care about you too, more so than you seem to deserve, and it's because I thought there was something in you, you people of District Twelve."

I narrow my eyes. "We 'people of District Twelve' as you put it, are starving. While you 'people of the Capital' feed off of our darkest nightmares. I can't trust you anymore than I can trust President Snow."

"I am not a person of the Capital."

"Hah. I'm not a person of District Twelve either. I lost that the moment I became their second victor," I say bitterly.

"Well then," he says. "Who are we?"

I chuckle, sourly. "I am the Capital's victor. And you are District Twelve's stylist."

"No, you're not. You are a victor of your own. One who trumped the Capital."

I stalk over to him. "A victor, you say. Someone who has beat the Capital?" I shake my head, a slight crazed tone entering my voice. Slow laughter bubbles up like poison, dissolving into chuckles like spasms that wrack my chest. "You don't know what you're talking about."

He smiles patiently at me. "Fine. Then let's make Katniss more than a victor."

I am startled at the sudden change of topic. "What?"

"Let us make Katniss more than a victor," Cinna repeats, "for you. And for me."

"What do we make her into?" I ask. "What can she be, if not a tribute, if not a victor?"_ Or a hunter, or a survivor, or just a sixteen-year-old girl?_ my mind continues to ramble.

His green eyes are bright and clear. "What you used to be. A rebel."

I used to a rebel. Really? I think of my relentless restlessness throughout the Games. My focus, not on the killing of the other tributes, not even on survival. But just on figuring out the Capital's design. Its secrets. Its weaknesses. I had felt like no rebel, but if that's what I was seen as, then so be it. It was useful.

What Cinna says seems to make so much sense until I realize — "What about Peeta?" I ask harshly.

"Do we abandon him to die? Can't he be what Katniss can be?"

"Haymitch, I know that you know why he can't."

I do.


	7. Out of Time

**A/N: This one was a bit rushed to write and I haven't really edited it well, but I figured I'd post it anyways, because I've been doing such a good job updating every three days! Thanks so much to favoriters, followers, and especially reviewers! It really makes my day to get an email saying someone's reviewed. :D**

**This chapter will sound a lot like what the interviews sounded like in the HG, from Katniss's view. I couldn't really change or add much, because it's mostly talking and watching anyways. And Katniss is very similar to Haymitch anyways, so I figured that they must sort of notice the same things.**

_Green. Everything is thick, lush and green, emerald and olive and forest. Then there were the flowers, dotting the meadow like drops of blood in all shades of crimson, vermillion and carmine. The wind rustles pleasantly, sounding like the singing of birds. I feel it whistle through my fingers, play with the locks of my hair. And the smell, oh, it smelled of honey and pine, sweet and flavorful. I open my mouth, as if I could taste it on my tongue. _

_"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Fiftieth Hunger Games begin!"_

I gasp, eyes tearing open as I wake. With a flash, my hand is reaching for the knife that is always under my pillow, but it's not there. It's not there? Why? Why? There isn't even a pillow at all. Why isn't it there? Where am I? My fingers claw at the leathery fabric of a couch. I swing my legs off into a sitting position. My senses on hyper-alert, my eyes flick around the room, trying to remember the day before.

"Sorry, you passed out here after a while. I thought it'd be best to just leave you here instead of dragging you back to your room."

"Cinna?" The memories of the previous night come back to me. My hangover finally hits as the adrenaline fades. "Ugh..." I groan.

He appears from his bedroom and deftly offers me a glass of water. "Yes, I thought you might have a hangover. Water? Coffee?"

"A drink," I mutter.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Cinna raises an eyebrow.

"Hmph." I get up and take a look around. "There's no need for me to stay here." I leave before he can really say anything else. I'd heard enough from him yesterday anyways.

* * *

I adjust a red bow tie with matching flame cuff links as I wait in front of the elevator. Effie shows up, then Cinna and Portia with Katniss and Peeta. They both look stunning, much as promised, Katniss's features dark and beautiful, skin sparkling, complementing the jewelled dress that throws off flashes of light as she shifts and Peeta looking sharp and handsome in a smart suit with flame accents.

However, Katniss is ignoring me. Whether she is still brewing from our session or whether she just decided to hate me overall I have no idea. Either way, she probably took it better than I did, meaning that she didn't give up and get sloshed.

Thinking on it, why did I get so upset? Katniss's case was already so much better than more or less all of the other tributes I've ever mentored, with her splash at the opening ceremony, her eleven in training, and Peeta's plan. I frown as I realize. I had this irrational (_or perhaps not so irrational?_ a tiny voice asks) hope that Katniss would win. The odds, however, were not in my favor, yet I still hoped? Childish of me, yet I find that I can't seem to persuade myself otherwise.

Katniss evidently isn't only ignoring me. She converses with Peeta, but is rather distant. I wonder how Peeta is doing. His expression reveals nothing, but he glances at Katniss every so often, when he's sure she isn't looking. I remember to make sure to reassure him before he goes on air.

The elevator opens and Effie spirits Katniss and Peeta away almost immediately, worrying about being late. They aren't, of course. Cinna and Portia leave as well, making for the main platform, discussing something quietly. I follow Effie for a while, and wait until she leaves Katniss and Peeta before approaching them and muttering, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it." I squeeze Peeta's shoulder in slight recognition so he nods.

Making my way back to the main platform I see Cinna, who is watching Katniss carefully. Shrugging, I find the other mentors, already situated in their seats. My seat on the very edge of the row, next to Chaff and Seeder. He gives me a friendly nudge, and tells some joke so I chuckle and nod back, too distracted to really pay attention to anything but the tributes on stage and the cameras all around.  
Oh yes, the cameras. There are dozens of them, flitting around, as well as giant screens displaying various views. I find a few of them displaying the crowd, but most are aimed to the Gamemakers, the stylists, the mentors, and the tributes. Yes, the tributes, there's a least one camera for each of them. Maybe even two, although they move around quite often.

I see the Katniss on one. Her features are dazzling and perfect, skin shimmering like satin. But her expression is haunted and fearful, like there's something on her mind that won't let go.  
Peeta's face is there too, but he is the exact opposite: smiling and elated, like the entire affair is delighting him. He always glances back at Katniss though, but increasingly, it is getting more obvious. He's setting it up.

The entire City Circle is made of flashing light and white noise, blaring like an unnatural high. Music starts playing as the interview starts and the crowd lowers its volume a notch so that Caesar Flickerman can be heard, but the soft muttering and shifting still sounds like a roar.

Powder blue is Caesar's color of the year, but I hear a reporter commenting that it looks too much like the periwinkle that he wore 5 years ago. "He must be running out of ideas!" she laughs, and a section of the crowd — the section that can hear her — laughs as well, but it blends in with the usual ruckus.  
A bit of banter with the audience and the show begins. The ground erupts in cheers as Glimmer, from District 1 walks out in a stunning, provocative, see-through gold dress. They go through a few exchanges and it's just the usual Career Tribute nonsense. Three minutes is up in a flash and it's the District 1 boy who walks up next, in what appears to be an actual silver suit.

The Districts pass in minutes, literally. 2, 3, 4. I try to watch the interviews while keeping track of my two tributes. Katniss is fearful while the boy volunteer from District 2 is trying to show off with brutality. Peeta's expression is calculating as he watches the 12-year-old Career Tribute from District 4 answer questions cockily.

I am fascinated when Hugo, the boy from District 10 goes up for his interview. He is almost shy, in a way. Hawkins, a few seats down from me, watches intently, but there is nothing impressive to watch. Hugo is polite, but quiet, not really appealing to the audience, but not dissuading either.

"Welcome, Hugo!" Caesar starts. "The audience has been raring to see you up here and so have I!"

He nods. "Glad to be here."

"We all know that you've got a victor in your family, and more amazingly, he's even your mentor! What have you got to say to that?"

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Hawkins but his gaze is unwaveringly fixed on Hugo. I hadn't known that. Then again, I don't usually pay much attention to the tributes of the other Districts so the habit hadn't quite settled in yet. So they were related...

"Well my uncle's never really talked to me about how he won his Games..." Hugo's gaze flicks nervously over to Hawkins. "I mean, I've seen it."

"So have we all. It was a stunning and completely new idea. I mean, taming muttations is supposed to be impossible! You going to have a hand at trying that in the Arena?"

"I can't give away my strategy," he says simply.

"Al-right. Then I won't ask."

The rest of the interview is nothing interesting, Caesar trying to make some banter and Hugo answering, but managing to deflect most of the talking over to Caesar. He stays polite though.  
The District 10 girl is nothing special, just another scared daughter of a rancher. She tries to come off as witty though, and although she's passable, it's nothing special.

District 11 consists of a tiny, bird-like twelve year old who reminds me of Katniss's sister, whom I remember because I made note of her. I remember her more clearly when her training score of 7 is mentioned. "It's an excellent score for one so small," Caesar remarks.

She nods, the wings on her back fluttering in some unseen wind. She raises a hand to her chest, small fingers clenched in a fist, making the wispy length on the sleeves look like feathers. "I'm very hard to catch," she says in a tremulous voice. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," he says encouragingly, and the crowd applauds their agreement.  
District 11's male finishes, and then it's Katniss. She stalks onto the stage, nervousness written in her steps. Her eyes scan the raised platform that the mentors and stylists are sitting on as Caesar begins.

"So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you the most since you arrived here?"

I see her eyes lock on Cinna, and she pauses, tipping her head sideways, thinking. The pause is almost awkwardly long, but she says, "The lamb stew," before it ruins the moment.

My chuckles adds to the audience's. It's passable, but I'm mostly laughing out of nervousness. I quell it.

"The one with the dried plums?" asks Caesar. She nods. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show, does it?" They shout reassurances and applaud. For a moment, I can only be disgusted by the Capitol but I grudgingly admit that it does help. I suppose that I ought to learn how to be charming like that. Then the thought just revolts me.

"Now, Katniss," he continues, "When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"

"You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?"

The audiences laughs. Good. At least she's got something going for her, but I'm not entirely sure what it is. Despite the laughs, I hope it's not just weak humor. I can't earn her sponsors from just humor.

"Yes. Start then."

She looks at Cinna, then back at Caesar and says dazzlingly, "I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this either." She lifts up her skirt to spread it out. "I mean, look at it!"

The crowd makes admiring noises, but positively screams in excitement when she twirls and the fifty or so blazing lights that are on her are reflected by the jewels, bursting with color, engulfing Katniss in waves after waves of flame. I see Peeta staring at her like he'd never seen her before and had just figured out that she was the most beautiful thing that he'd ever seen.

"Oh, do that again!" Caesar exclaims.

She does, and the audiences just loves it more and more. The picture is burned into everyone's eyes: Katniss, the girl on fire.

But not only the girl on fire now. She is also the girl who makes jokes and giggles and twirls, apparently. What am I supposed to do with _that?_ I just hope Peeta knows what he's doing.

"Don't stop!" Caesar encourages.

But Katniss giggles and clutches onto his arm, saying, "I have to, I'm dizzy!"

He wraps a protective arm around her. "Don't worry," he says reassuringly, "I've got you. Can't having you following in your mentor's footsteps."

The cameras zoom on me, so I smile good-naturedly and wave, pointing them back to Katniss.

"It's all right," says Caesar. "She's safe with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint what happened in there."

Her gaze finds the Gamemakers, who are sitting on the only balcony not occupied by cameras. "Um...all I can say, is that I think it was a first."

The Gamemakers laugh among themselves and nod, sharing a private joke.

"You're killing us. Details. Details."

She addresses the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"

Plutarch shouts out, "She's not!" Amused, I wonder if he is the Gamemaker who Katniss told us fell into a bowl of punch.

"Thank you," she says. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

A golden opportunity lost. She could have played that slightly better, but I admit that she gets a little leeway with being nervous.

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," Caesar says. The audiences hushes. They have all seen that moment on a screen, but they were all eager to hear what Katniss had to say about it. Some people thought it was touching. Others thought it was strategic. Whichever she chose would be what I had to work with.

"Her name's Prim," begins Katniss, "She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."  
It's so quiet that even as Katniss's voice drops softer and softer every word rings. "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?"

Her eyes narrow, sharpen, and her whole body is tense as if she were frozen. But it's the audience that's frozen when she speaks, her voice low and dangerous.

"I swore I would."

"I bet you did," says Caesar. The buzzer goes off. "Sorry, we're out of time. Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve."

Her expression is neutral as she seats herself, the applause going on, long and loud.

Peeta is up before Katniss is even settled, and the audience adores him. He is as perfect as he was in practice the day before, flawless in every expression and displaying no signs of nervousness at all, even with hundreds of cameras analyzing every twitch in his face, microphones catching every breath.

He includes the audience, not only allowing, but encouraging them to shout out words and suggestions as he starts with comparing tributes to bread from their districts. They love him. I know his words are not scripted because the wording is different from practice, but he is smooth as if it were.

I don't worry about listening to hard to the introductory things, because I know he's got it down. But I know that time's running out and if Peeta doesn't bring up the subject soon he may not have time for the most important part of the interview.

"Tell me, do you have a girlfriend at home, Peeta?"

Perfect timing. He has a good minute left in his interview. He hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.

Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

I want to laugh, because I know Peeta's acting for once, but I can't when the audience is making sounds of sympathy. I know he's actually telling the truth, but there's always something about saying it in front of a Capitol audience that makes it sound so fake suddenly. But they lap it up anyways.

"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"

_Oh yes she can,_ I think.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning...won't help in my case," says Peeta.

The audience is confused, muttering, trying to figure out what he could possibly mean. I grin. They'll never guess what hit them, and that's why Peeta is brilliant.

"Why ever not?" Caesar asks, asking the question for the audience.

Peeta flushes. I don't think he's doing it on command. "Because...because..." he stammers, "...she came here with me."

And the ball drops.

* * *

In an instant, every camera and every light in the City Circle turns to see Katniss's reaction, momentarily blinding the area. And her reaction is _perfect._ Stunning, really, how well it matches up with Peeta's downcast eyes. Her face is flushed and she stares down at the floor, not daring to look at Peeta. For reasons that the audience doesn't have to know.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and he sounds genuinely in pain for once. Even the crowd is agitated and confused, murmuring like lost sheep.

"It's not good," Peeta agrees.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady." I can't resist lifting an eyebrow. Honestly? Who in their right mind would fall for Katniss? Hah, I suppose I've already placed all my bets on her. "She didn't know?" Caesar says.

Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now."

Katniss's face finally raises, and everyone can see the dumbfounded look in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks. Every camera fixes on it.

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams their assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

The crowd dissolves into cheering and crying and plain, deafening, roaring. I sigh. Peeta's plan has been put into motion. Now to see the result, and I'm not sure he is going to like it.

* * *

The elevator doors open, and we are all getting ready to spring upon the two tributes with praise and congratulations, when the scene really sinks in.

Peeta is sitting in the narrow hallway amidst a pile of broken shards, fake flowers scattered around him. A steady puddle of crimson is running from his hands where he's propped himself up so that he didn't land on the bits of pottery completely. But it is his eyes, full of hurt and betrayal that anger me the most.

Katniss is standing over him, chest heaving like she's just run for miles. The "cornered stray cat" look is on her face again. She stumbles backwards a bit in surprise as we all appear.

"What's going on?" says Effie, slightly hysterical. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," Peeta says blandly. The hurt is gone, but I see his mask up again. Effie and Cinna help him up.

"Shoved him?" I growl, turning on Katniss.

"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" she spits back.

I don't have time to answer cuttingly as Peeta says, "It was my idea. Haymitch just helped me with it." He pulls a shard of blue and white pottery from his hand, wincing as it causes a fresh flow of blood. Effie squeaks in alarm and pulls away.

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" she says.

"You are a fool," I say, "Do you think he hurt you? That boy gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!"

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!"

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!"

That's when I really snap. What was wrong with the girl! Stupid, stubborn, misunderstanding! I grab her shoulders and pin her against the wall, staring her right in the eyes and hoping that something — anything! — will register in that incompetent brain of hers. "Who cares! It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back at home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

She pushes me and I stumble back a few steps, but don't stop glaring at her. You could hear a pin drop. Then Cinna wraps an arm around her comfortingly. "He's right, Katniss."

More silences ensues as she thinks, broken only by the clinking sounds of Peeta tossing away bits of urn. "I should have been told," she says eventually. "So I didn't look so stupid.

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia.

"She's just worried about her boyfriend," Peeta says gruffly.

Boyfriend? I think of the dark haired boy next to her in the Hob the day of the Reaping. They seemed to be close. It was too suspicious; something had to be done, I decide.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she answers, flushing.

"Whatever," Peeta says, a touch of bitterness polluting his normally cordial voice. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides _you_ didn't say you loved _me_. So what does it matter?"

Silences wraps around us again, Peeta still hanging on for Katniss's reaction. Effie and Portia are still worrying over Peeta's hands; Cinna is still worrying over Katniss. I am worried about both of them.

"After he said he loved me," says Katniss suddenly, "did you think I could be in love with him, too?"

Peeta looks away, but I can see how much that statement hurt.

"I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the camera, the blush."

"You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," I say.

She apologizes to Peeta, and he accepts graciously. Finally, I am able to lead them all to dinner, away from the uncomfortable situation. We start eating, but Peeta's hands start bleeding at the slightest touch, so Portia leads him off for medical treatment.

After dinner we watch reply in the sitting room. I patiently wait for the entire thing to finish, the anthem to play and the screen to go dark. There was nothing to tell Katniss and Peeta. They both knew their faults already.

Cinna clicks the TV screen off, and the room falls silent, the approaching weight of the Games laying on all our shoulders. Peeta and Katniss will leave early tomorrow morning; I will have to give my final advice now.

I impatiently wait for Effie Trinket to stop crying over both their shoulders so I can talk to them. She leaves with an awful, "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!" and hurries away.

Getting over my disgust quickly, I go over to the two tributes. I cross my arms and look them over silently.

"Any final words of advice?" Peeta asks, shattering the quiet.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there," I say. It would be the best strategy for both of them. "You're neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water. Got it?"

"And after that?" Katniss asks.

"Stay alive." And this time when I say the words, I find that I do care.

They nod. With one final, downcast glance, Katniss slips from the room quietly, done talking to people. My last glance of her is a shimmering reflection from a bright jewel.

Peeta is talking softly with Portia, so I just lurk in a corner for a while. Soon, he turns and makes as if to leave, but I catch his shoulder. "I told you that might happen," I mutter, "I told you to be prepared."

He looks at me, eyes flashing from confused to pained. "I know," he murmurs. "I just didn't know it would hurt that much." And he disappears around the corner before I can say another word.


	8. It's Getting Hard to Remember

**A/N: Updating is going to slow down at this point. Partially because this is a pivotal point in the story now that the Games are going to begin, but mostly because school is starting. . So I'll update weekly or biweekly from now on. Review, as always. :D**

**Oh, and I'm so sorry, but I sort of screwed up the order of some stuff. I accidently omitted Haymitch's goodbye with Katniss and Peeta before they leave for the Games. O.O So go read Chapter 7 again if you read it before 8/24...**

It's too quiet.

The hallways are all empty. It's far too early for anyone else to be up, but I have always had a habit of waking up and wandering the halls the morning the Games start. It can't be later than 6 o'clock in the morning. The silence is ominous and choking.

Footsteps echo the narrow area, and I have a sudden urge to get out. The entire floor is empty; people are either sensibly sleeping or lying awake. The labyrinth of Capital outside the buildings are hardly welcoming, but I feel I must go somewhere.

The button labelled "G" is punched almost offensively, and the elevator zooms down. A bit of music plays, not dominating, but creating a sort of lonesome atmosphere. The crystalline walls and floor have always unnerved me. Made me feel exposed and trapped at the same time. It reminded me too much of the glass cylinders that tributes were put in right before they were put in the arena.

Surprisingly, the elevator hardly moves before it stops again. Ding. Floor 10.

The door opens to reveal a half canine face. "Fancy seeing you here, Hawkins," I say in greeting. "It's very early in the morning to be out and about."

He nods, stepping in. "Your tributes ready for the arena?"

"Ready?" I snort. "Hardly. It'll do, though. What about your nephew? He any good?" I ask, curious about what I'd found out at the interviews.

"Fine."

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He sounds too tense. "I hear your nephew is not fine."

Hawkins snarls. "A crippled foot; so what?"

He is much too riled to be bothered only by a crippled foot. I laugh. "Touchy."

I am interrupted the the door opening again. I check the floor number impatiently, disbelieving that we've already stopped again. Floor 5. Another mentor looks at us both, eyes narrowed. "Angerona," Hawkins rumbles, finally.

"Good afternoon," she answers curtly. We don't get any farther until —

Ding. Floor 4.

"Well hello." Finnick Odair's sea green eyes are not in the least surprised. And I suppose neither am I.

Angerona, Hawkins, Finnick. And me. We are all victors, but that is not all we have in common. There is something in the lines of our faces, the darkness in our eyes. What are we all doing here, gathered in one place?

Finnick steps into the elevator as well. "Haymitch Abernathy. How lovely it is to see you again." He smirks.

I frown slightly, slouching. "You all going to a party or something?"

"Oh," Finnick says airily, "There's a really nice diner five minutes train ride out, in the next town. Hawkins invited me, so I invited Angerona. We'll be back before the Games Headquarters even opens. Want to come?"

Why not? This is far too suspicious for me to ignore and I have to figure out what it is. I shrug.

"So you're in?" Hawkins asks, gazing at me shrewdly.

I laugh. "You make it sound so serious. But I'm in."

* * *

The diner, in fact, was not a short "five minute train ride" away. It was a five minute train ride to the edge of the city, then another fifteen minutes in a sleek, glossy taxi to the next city, a bus downtown through the middle class area, and then a walk downtown.

The conditions are still far better than the ones in any district, for sure, but it isn't quite the soaring skyscrapers and long, majestic bridges of the Capitol. Us victors still stuck out like a sore thumb, despite Hawkins's insistence at anonymity. We don't belong here at all, either too poor mannered or too rich and gauzy. We belong nowhere.

Hawkins's furred ears are concealed under a tanned, leathery cowboy hat with a wide brim that he pulls down low over his eyes. He is dressed plainly; or as plainly as one can get in the Capitol, clad in loose, navy blue jeans, and a red plaid shirt that he rolls up to his elbows, his alterations hidden beneath clothing.

Angerona is overdressed in a long, elegant silver-gray dress, shrouded by ink black hair (naturally golden, I know from the Games), standing out glaring from the few citizens who were found wandering the streets.

Finnick looks the most casual, in a navy blue shirt, black waistcoat, and dark scarf wound lightly about his neck.

And as for me. Well, if I duck my head, I already look quite inconspicuous.

The four of us look so suspicious together that eventually Hawkins orders us to split up and make our own ways to the diner. The other two shrug and obey, Finnick melting into a side store and Angerona stalking the alleyways.

I make as if to leave as well, but Hawkins says, "You ought to stay with me. If you get lost here it's quite a way back."

"Treating me like a lost little puppy?" I snort. "I'll be fine."

He shrugs. "Wouldn't hurt to come with me."

"Hm. Wouldn't it?"

He glares at me, so I shoot him a grin and follow his quick, silent, footsteps.

It's a tiny diner, painted a rusting green with tacky neon lights, shoved in between a family owned barber's shop and a store selling collector's cards. A passerby could just walk by it entirely and not even notice. I would have if not for Hawkins.

He strolls in like he owns the place, and gets a table near the back. We sit in silence for a while, neither saying a word. The waitress appears, but Hawkins waves her away, saying that we're still waiting for people.

Angerona appears first, Finnick following soon after. They join us, and that's when conversation begins.  
Hawkins begins. "Glad you could all come. No troubles along the way?"

"No, none at all," Finnick says. I flick a glance at him. He isn't acting like his usually flippant self. Rather, he seems actually serious.

Angerona gives me a sidelong glance. "Well, since Haymitch is here, oughtn't we...?"

"Yes, we should," says Hawkins.

"Stop beating around the bush," I say dryly. "You're not hitting anything."

But before the conversation can go any further, the waitress makes her way back to us, ridiculously perky for five in the morning. "Will you need a menu? The specials today are —"

"Just water," Hawkins interrupts curtly, pulling the brim of his hat lower.

"I'll have a coffee," Angerona says, raising an eyebrow at Hawkins as if to scold him for his rudeness. "Cream but no sugar."

"Same," says Finnick idly.

The waitress suddenly turns to him, eyes widening in delight as she recognizes him. "Are — Oh my God — are you Finnick Odair?" she squeals, blushing furiously.

That earns a few curious glances, but Finnick shifts his scarf, then looks at the woman like she's crazy. "What?"

She blushes even redder, her face scarlet. The few people in the diner go back to eating. "Oh!" she gasps. "So sorry. Really. It's just...you look a lot like him, you know." She chuckles, embarrassed.

"Hm. I suppose. Some people do say that." He shrugs nonchalantly.

The waitress is visibly flustered. "Well I'm sorry." She turns hurriedly to me. "Anything for you, sir?"

"Nothing," I reply.

She just seems glad to be able to leave. "Alright. I'll be back in a minute or two!"

Angerona chuckles as she practically sprints away. "So they always react like that?"

Finnick sighs theatrically. "Yes, they do. It's getting hard to remember that I actually am Finnick Odair; I've denied it so many times already."

"Hush!" Hawkins snaps. "We've less than half an hour. Let's get to business."

Angerona sighs. "Okay. Haymitch. We are forming a group to, let's say, exterminate parasites if you know what I mean. But we are seeing what we can do to work from the top, because we aren't about to kill harmless ones."

I translate that to: We are a rebellion, but we still believe that there are innocents in the Capitol. "Really? And this is all you've got?" Three victors who had got almost everything stripped from them already? What can you do? What power do you have?

She sighs frustratedly. "No. We lost... a lot recently. Expanding is our main goal right now, because we're more of an idea rather than an organization at this point."

"Which one of you heads it?" I ask.

"Me," Hawkins rumbles. "My mentor used to head it, but... a lot of people died the last time information was leaked."

I look at him sharply. "What information do you gather?"

"Secrets," says Angerona.

Secret were very precious if one knew what to do with them. They could also potentially be life threatening. "And what motives do you have?"

"We all have motives," he growls.

"Heads up. Waitress," Finnick says suddenly.

The waitress sweeps back with our orders. "Water for you. And coffee for you two." She leaves in a hurry, not looking any of us in the eye. Probably embarrassed. A good thing though, and it prevents questions from being asked.

We wait until she is out of earshot, then Angerona says, "Anyways, the whole point of this is that we believe you have the same cause as we all do. We'd like you to help us."

I roll my eyes. "I'll think about it. How do you all meet? Don't tell me it's always like this."

Finnick grins lopsidedly. "Sort of. It's not too much trouble, and it's a lot safer than trying to meet back there." He picks up his cup of coffee and takes a gulp, wincing. "Of course you have to drink it without sugar, Angie."

She shrugs, sipping at her mug. "You didn't have to order the same thing."

"If I had said more than one word she would have recognized me!" he protests.

"She still did," Hawkins points out.

The three seem to know each other pretty well, by the sound of their banter. It's so unlike the cool atmosphere from the elevator. "How long has this been going on?" I ask.

"Not long for me," Angerona replies. "This is only the second time I've been to a meeting. I've no idea how long these two have been at it."

The two look at each other. "Hawkins got me in it, of course," says Finnick, "but I haven't been in it for long either. Perhaps three weeks."

Then we all look at Hawkins. "I have no idea when or where it originated. I've been at it for a year."

"Then how do you know each other so well?" I say suspiciously.

"There's something about being a victor," Hawkins says. "Some type of twisted connection that allows us to have a mutual...hatred."

I think about that, and about Plutarch Heavensbee and Cinna. "Perhaps...perhaps you aren't the only ones," I say carefully.

"What do you mean?" Hawkins asks, eyes narrowed, sharp eyebrows hooding over his eyes, casting dark shadows. His lips lift slightly, baring white teeth.

"Plutarch Heavensbee approached me a while ago, during the training. He talked to me about Katniss and wines and just banter, but he did give me a phone number and a pen."

"So?"

"He's leading a rebellion too. Much like yours, I'd imagine."

Finnick turns to me. "Really? A Gamemaker?"

I snort. "An idealist."

"Well that explains it," Angerona mutters. "What did you say about a pen?"

I hesitate, debating whether it was worth it to tell them or not. I wasn't sure if there really was anything to hide, but just in case, one could never be too cautious. In the end, I figure that it would be better to not have three hostiles breathing down my neck, so I say, "It was a communication device. But I'm wasn't sure if I could trust him, so I crushed it."

Hawkins's eyebrow lifts. "Just like that? No questions asked?"

"No," I reply, "Cinna, Katniss's stylist, came to me. He had been contacted by Plutarch as well and had been a lot more eager to accept the offered hand. But when it asked for a name, and that's when I decided it was too suspicious."

We all sit in silence. The waitress comes back and asks if we want our drinks refilled, but Hawkins waves her away, so she teeters quickly away. "We'll have to see about that. Can we talk again, Haymitch? Time is running short."

"Of course. But, if you would, I'd like to know who else knows about..." I gesture around the circular table, "...this?"

"Not many people," says Finnick. "One from Seven, one from Three and two from Eight."

"Which ones?"

Finnick gestures to Angerona then says, "Seven. Eight. " Then he points to Hawkins, and says, "Three. Eight."

A female, District 7 victor. Johanna Mason. And Cecilia, from Eight. I'm not sure who it is from Three, but if I could hazard a guess it would be Beetee. And the other Eight...it can only be Woof.

"But don't trust any of them until you see them in a meeting like this," Hawkins growls.

"You think I was born yesterday?" I say irritably. "Of course not. It's not like I can trust any of you yet anyways," I add.

"True," Angerona says. "But we cannot trust you either."

"Yet here we are. What an exquisite paradox," I mutter sardonically. "Well, we ought to leave now anyways, so you can go on distrusting me."

Hawkins drops his gaze to a watch strapped to his wrist. Oddly, I notice that the hands don't move. It's frozen on 4:37pm. But he dips his hand in his pocket and pulls out a digital pocketwatch. "It's 6:46. We're late."

There's a hurry to get back to our rooms before anyone has really made suspicions as to where we have gone. Hawkins keeps growling at the taxi driver to take shortcuts and small roads. He seems to know the place really well.

"Take a left into that alleyway," Hawkins instructs calmly.

The driver doesn't hear for a moment, and continues straight ahead.

"Damnit, I said take a left!" he shouts, leaning forwards and banging on the cage that separated from the driver.

The startled man wrenches the wheel sideways and we are all flung into the car door. Finnick slams into the left shoulder, my right grinding painfully into the glass window. Angerona, in the front seat, apologizes for her friend who's "going through a rough time." Aren't we all?

The taxi stops, and we all get out, except for Angerona, who is handing over a neat stack of bills.

"Thank you," she says politely.

The driver gives a grumpy mutter, then drives off.

"Let's go." We all file into the elevator, a nervous silence presiding now that we are back in the Training Center. I'm to meet with Effie to go to the Games Headquarters. I'm usually late, so perhaps it isn't surprising that I'm not passed out in my room like most years, but it would be surprising if they discovered that I'd been wandering about the Capital.

Finnick leaves first, Kir soon after. Hawkins and I don't say anything at all until the elevator dings at the tenth floor. "Good luck," he says.

I just raise an eyebrow, so he turns and walks away.

There is a moment when the obnoxious elevator music pauses and all is silent, and it feels like a breath of fresh air for me to think.

* * *

The Games Headquarters are bright white, all the walls and lights shining as if the pureness of the color could cover the stain of their cruelty. I catch a few glimpses of familiar faces as I wander into the main hall: Plutarch is talking with another Gamemaker, engrossed in the conversation, but he still manages to give me a friendly wave which I am disinclined to reply to; Chaff is talking with Seeder, telling some kind of joke; Finnick is thronged by squealing fangirls, whom he gives easy smiles to. But mostly it's filled with sponsors and reporters and politicians, few of whom I recognize.

The hall itself is a gigantic hoop, surrounding the little donut hole in which the actual monitoring and strategics of the Games took place. No one is be in there yet; the Gamemakers are all out greeting the crowd.

Most of the victors and mentors are out and about as well. There are sponsors to meet, people to greet and impressions to be made. This is a crucial stage, the moment right before the Games start. No one would be making any big bets yet, but speculation starts here. This is the place where my first personal touches will be made.

I decide that hanging around the District 12 door is probably the best place to talk to possible sponsors and/or reporters. Each District gets a room around the main hall in which the escorters and mentors can discuss strategy. It's almost like a clock, but there's a thirteenth section for different districts to discuss alliance strategies privately. Of course, it's pretty much the personal meeting room of the Career Districts usually, but I feel that this year it may be a bit different.

"Haymitch! Where have you been! You scared me almost to death, you're five minutes late!"

I turn to Effie Trinket, her flushed face marring her makeup and making her an almost uniform pink. "So?"

"Ugh," she mutters, then walks away to talk to some wealthy women in almost offensively low cut gowns. "Peeta and Katniss, they're like coal!" she says in a wondrous voice. "You know, if you put enough pressure on coal, then they turn into pearls. And pearls, pearls are lovely, aren't they?"

The women murmur excitedly and nod. For once, I find myself glad for the airheadedness of most of the Capitol's citizens. At least they would fall for the sappy romance novel thing more easily.

Standing in front of the door leading to the District Twelve room, I am recognized, and sought out. So many sponsors, wealthy men and women who hold power in all kinds of way, want to talk to me. There are all kinds of people here, but they are all rich people.

Someone is saying something about betting odds, and another is talking about training scores. But mostly, they talk about Peeta and Katniss, the star-crossed lovers that everyone's falling for. Good. It's working.

There are more people packed into the area around District 12 than ever before. Usually, because District Twelve's room is in the very back and no one wants us anyways, the hall around here is deserted. But not now. It is so filled that all you can see are the feathery tops of womens' hats and one or two absurdly tall men to rise above the crowd.

I talk and talk until my throat aches. I've never done so much talking for someone else's sake. It seems that only minutes have passed though, when the hour flies by.

Suddenly, the Claudius Templesmith's voice rings through the building, audible even through all the conversation. "Kindly take your seats now, the tributes will be entering the ring soon."

This just sets another eruption of talk flowing. The Gamemakers will be finally entering the center of the Headquarters, the mentors and victors should be entering their rooms and the rest of the people are going to a theater room located in a wing. However, sometimes a few exceedingly rich people are invited into the "private rooms" of the Districts to watch the start of the Games. It's considered an honor.

I usually dislike the practice even though it's useful to get the attention of one or two sponsors. But if you picked the wrong guy then it was easy to just ruin the chances of regular sponsors completely. Instead I just sign in a few more possible ones outside the door and then go into the room, of which doors are finally unlocked. Effie totters in a while later, but she hasn't brought anyone either.

Neither of us say a word. Honestly, we've been doing this for years, and we've never had anything to say. The PA comes on again and Templesmith says, "Here's our first glance at the arena."

The television screens turn on automatically. There are four in the room: one for the regular broadcasting that the Capitol audience will see, one for Peeta, one for Katniss, and one to control manually, broadcasting whichever tribute we think is best to follow.

Currently the main one is displaying scenic views of the arena, showing tall grass fields and pine forest. It is so lucky that there is a forest. I hope Katniss has the sense to go there immediately.

The other two cameras, made to follow the District 12 tributes are focused on the tribute plates, on which the two will arrive soon. The custom screen is displaying the same as the main one, but I tap the screen, reprogramming it to show me what is in the Cornucopia.

It's mostly the standard specs: food, weapons, and handy gadgets near the mouth and almost useless scraps near the outside. My eye catches on a silver bow. It must be the only one in the whole arena. I wonder if the Gamemakers made it purposefully that way, knowing Katniss's strength as an archer.

Glass cylinders rise up then retract, leaving us with a clear view on the tributes. Cameras immediately find their target. Effie Trinket squeals in delight when she sees Katniss and Peeta. "They look so ready!" she says.

But they aren't. No one can be.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Claudius Templesmith booms, "Let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"

My mouth sets in a grim line.


	9. For these Games

**A/N: I know I haven't updated for almost two weeks but sadly, that's probably the rate updating's going to be from now on. :/ But I did get a few lovely encouraging reviews and I really appreciate it! ^.^ Thanks so much. **

**By the way, italics indicate flashbacks. My apologies if it's hard to read. And now, let the Games begin! **

"One minute until they start!"

The main camera is doing a sweep on all the tributes. Katniss and Peeta are a good five plates apart, enough so that hopefully they won't be distracted. Of course, they are both supposed to just run from the bloodbath anyways.

The dark, lush, pine woods are where I want Katniss to head immediately. It's a grand stroke of luck that such a perfect place for her exists in the arena, not to mention that it even has a second source of water there as well. It's close enough that she should be able to reach it within a day if she travels directly there on foot. Good. I feel that I shouldn't spoil her with such small sponsor gifts as water if she can deal with it.

Peeta on the other hand… he will be a problem. I have no idea what to do about him.

The main television is now showing the City Circle, packed with people watching Claudius Templesmith stand in front of a giant screen and chant, "TEN!"

"NINE!" they roar in reply. "EIGHT!"

I glance back at the screen. Katniss's gaze is drawn right towards the set of silver arrows, but they are too far in for her to get. It's too dangerous. Peeta can tell too, by the way he's looking at her.

"SEVEN!"

They exchange a look. That can't be a good thing.

"SIX!"

The Career tributes look raring to go; they know that the minute must almost be up. They steady on their plates.

"FIVE!"

The other tributes, seeing this, fidget nervously. Peeta is still holding Katniss's eyes, shaking his head slightly in a desperate attempt to get her not to.

"FOUR!"

She glares back at him.

"THREE!"

He glares back at her.

"TWO!"

Their contact breaks and Katniss falters.

"ONE!"

The bell rings, and twenty-two tributes rush out towards the bloodbath. A few grab choice items and leave; others are fighting to the death. Two tributes are standing stunned on their plates.

"Katniss!" Peeta roars, but his voice is whipped away by the furious carnage that has suddenly surged up around them. I can only hear his voice from the tiny microphone embedded in his suit that connects to his camera. On the main camera there are only screams. Even most of Claudius's commentary had petered down, so that the blood shed will be clearer.

Katniss stumbles at the sound of the bell, turning on the balls of her feet as if she doesn't know which way to go. _To the woods!_ I think. But she dives into the fight. "No," I mutter.

Frantic, Peeta dives in after her. He picks up a knife on his way and begins maneuvering towards Katniss. Effie is practically bouncing up and down with anticipation and excitement. "He is so romantic," she gushes.

Romantic enough to nearly get stabbed several times, yes, I suppose. He doesn't use his knife to do anything but block blows that are aimed towards him. I can't suppress an irritated sigh. He got his hands on a knife; if he wasn't going to kill, then what was he planning to do?

What the hell were both of them doing in the blood bath?! I told them to get the hell out of there!

Katniss seems to finally hear my advice. Snatching a backpack, she turns to run, but the boy from District 9 grabs it at the same time. A frenzied look swarms Katniss's eyes. It's as if her entire being has suddenly been switched on to survival.

"And the first death is Pero, from District 9!" Claudius Templesmith's voice comes on suddenly.

My eyes find the main camera again. It's circling around the District 9 boy, zooming in on the blood gagging up from his throat, gushing from his back. And the triumphant girl from District 2 shoves him to the ground, a knife in his back. Looking up, eyes bright from excitement and adrenaline, she turns to Katniss.

Effie shrieks. "Run!" she cries, as if Katniss can hear her.

"Clove has found her next target," Claudius says, "and it's Katniss, the girl on fire from District 12! Who is the predator and who is the prey? It looks like Katniss is on the run!"

The camera switches to an overhead view. I see Clove throwing a knife, a streak of flashing metal streaming through the air. I'm afraid that it will be over for Katniss in just a moment.

"And she blocks the knife! District 12 tribute Katniss has escaped the bloodbath with a wealth of supplies and a handy knife from Clove. Where is her star crossed lover, however?!" says the announcer.

The camera view flies, and I know what it will center on. Peeta is struggling desperately in the middle of the bloodbath, but anyone with a touch of emotion will be able to see the relief in his eyes and he watches Katniss sprint away. But he is tackled by the District 5 boy before he can do anything else. They both take to the ground, each struggling to get a better position. All that's keeping Peeta alive is his superior strength. He still has a knife gripped in his hand, but he's still not using it to do anything but threaten the other boy, who is wearing leather guards on his forearms and neck and a sort of thick plate over his chest.

I suck in a tense breath when the other boy manages to wrench the knife from Peeta's hand and deal him a vicious gash in his arm. Peeta cries out, but it is lost within the other screams. "He's wounded!" Claudius cries. "Oh, but what's this? Markos, of District 4 has pulled Lucus, of District 5 off of Peeta, possibly saving his life. Markos, even though being small and only twelve years old is quite a strong contender in these Games. He is part of an alliance between Districts 1, 2 and 4."

Markos, as his name apparently was, twists the larger boy's hand subtly, catching the knife as he fell from his hand. Then he slits the District 5 boy's throat.

Effie gives a gasp, but just watches more intently. I barely even hear it, focusing on what's happening on screen. But even as I watch, I find myself slipping. Are the screams I hear those of the tributes on screen or those from what I remember?

I had run from the bloodbath at that time. Was I reliving that now? The screams echo in my ears.

Peeta is trying to dodge the bright tongue of flame that is the knife that the District 4 boy is wielding, but he is slow and clumsy compared to the other. I can tell. The small boy is lightning fast, catching Peeta again in the arm and once on the leg.

It was slow slaughter. And it looked pathetic, this tiny boy striking Peeta, who can do nothing but take the cuts.

I'm afraid I'm losing my mind in the present. The last time I tried actually watching the whole blood bath was during the first year I mentored. I could not take my eyes off of the screen; I could not stop the names of the tributes from resounding in my mind. _Dalber. And Sorrel._ I'd tried to forget them all after that, but for years still… _Verbena. Ash. Willow and Aspen and Aven, Burnet, Cedar, Malva, Nurit..._ And now Peeta.

_Fight!_ I think, like a prayer for the boy whom I'd gotten too close to.

And he did, as if he'd heard me. Somehow, Peeta switches to the offensive, startling the boy so much that he takes a hesitant step back, and ducks, because otherwise Peeta's heavy fist would have smashed into his temple. He hasn't got the speed, for sure, but he's got strength, and that's enough to put a second thought into the Career's mind.

Still, without speed, unless he got a lucky hit in, he wouldn't be able to defeat Markos. If he tried to run, it would just be another chance to plunge the knife into his back.

Claudius is commenting on the District 2 boy now, Cato. I listen vaguely. "Look at that raw strength! If I had to put my money on someone it would be Cato, of District 2! He took down that District Seven girl with one blow to the head!"

The District Seven girl, I remember absently. Johanna's tribute.

Peeta is leading Markos further into the fray, and I can see what he is trying to do. It's the only thing that he could possibly do at this point. He has to hope that someone else will distract Markos enough for him to get a powerful hit in, one of very concentrated and concussive force.

The general rage of the bloodbath has separated into small battles here and there, the Career District partners often fighting together. Another boy goes down screaming to Glimmer and Marvel's teamwork.

But Peeta's wish is granted an answer. The boy from District Three, I forgot his name, but he is crouched on the ground, trying to appear inconspicuous while gathering little materials around the Cornucopia, when he gets tripped over. He makes a small surprised noise and wriggles away quickly, but not before Peeta gains his advantage over his unbalanced opponent.

He steps on Markos's hand, making him drop the knife, and then he drags him up and wrenches him into a headlock. Pulling the small boy effortlessly against the Cornucopia, he shouts out in the general direction of the Careers who are finishing off the last few tributes who are still alive after the bloodbath. The District Three boy whimpers and drags himself to the edge of the woods, but I can tell he hasn't gone far.

"You want him back alive?" says Peeta.

The District 4 girl shrieks when she sees him. "Give him back!" she snarls.

Peeta doesn't reply immediately, and just pulls the boy up in front of him so that any ranged weapons would hit Markos first. Markos struggles but for once, Peeta's strength is too much for him.

What is he thinking? You don't bargain with Careers. They are ruthless and unreasonable, and they'll kill you sometime anyways. Then I remember what Peeta had once mentioned before.

* * *

_"You won't survive more than a few days without food," I tell him. "So you ought to learn how to eat in the arena before you learn how to fight."_

_"I won't survive a few days without being able to fight either," Peeta points out._

_Peeta said he had a plan. I was just helping him build on it. After seeing Katniss with her eleven, he must have. "You're strong. Think about it. You've already got the physical advantage, but that just means that you'll have to consume more to keep that strength up if you want a chance of winning."_

_Peeta frowns. "I don't want to win."_

_I raise my eyebrows._

_"I…I don't think I could win. If it was just me and, say, that tiny girl from Eleven, Rue, I don't think I could kill her."_

_And this is why we were different, Peeta and I. Nobility was the last thing I had in mind in my Games and it's the last thing I have in mind for these Games. "Fine. Then tell me: what is this brilliant plan of yours that isn't concerned with food."_

_He bites his lip. "If it's just the food part that you're concerned with…the Cornucopia has food aplenty."_

_I snort. "Wow. Now tell me something I don't already know."_

_"Well then I know where to find food."_

_"No offense Peeta, but I doubt you could survive off of stealing food from the Careers," I say as gently as I can. Sorry, but I'm not that gentle, and his random dropping in has irked me, especially since the last time I'd talked to him was when he ran out on me._

_His face changes into this sort of pensive, thoughtful expression, his mouth half dropping open. "Who said anything about stealing?" he says slowly._

_"What're you gonna do? Ask them nicely and say please? Careers will just stab you in the back when you're not looking."_

_"But..." he trails off hesitantly. _

_"Hah, kid, you can't just waltz in there and get them to trust you. They don't even trust each other in the arena."_

_"Hm. Fine."_

* * *

I thought the idea had been dropped. Who the hell is crazy enough to ally with Careers, of all people?! Honestly, I'd thought he was sick, crazy and completely in love after I'd heard the rest of his so-called-plan, but this is one step too far.

"Hey, Lover Boy!" Cato calls. "You know you don't stand a chance against us."

Peeta shrugs, as if nonchalantly, and he is the feature on the main screen. The energy is so charged that I can feel it through the screen. "What about him?" He tightens his grip.

"What is Peeta Mellark doing now?!" Claudius Templesmith says excitedly. "Ladies and gentlemen. This. Is. Shocking! It looks like the District 12 tribute is holding Markos of District 4 hostage against the rest of his alliance! And they don't look too happy!"

Effie, who had left the room to go sign up the sponsors she had talked to earlier in what had originally appeared to be a lull, comes bursting back in, trilling. "Oh, look at the attention Peeta is getting! This is wonderful!"

I refrain from taking out all my frustration and confusion on Effie. I try to keep from hating more than is healthy. Instead, I just reply with a curt nod.

She senses the undertone, luckily for her, and stays quiet.

"Let him go," Clove says, voice steely. She holds up a knife threateningly.

"Don't," the girl from Four says urgently. "You'll hit Markos."

Clove turns on her ally in an icy rage. "You doubt my aim?"

"Well look at this! It looks like Peeta has got the Careers turning on each other. It looks like he anticipated this!" I am tempted to mute the damn thing like I have been doing for decades, but I know it's crucial to hear what the Capitol audience is hearing so I can figure out what their view has been. And it probably won't hurt to try and be a guest commentator this year, I figure.

"Cut it out you two!" Cato snaps. Clove snaps her mouth shut in an angry line and moves as far away as she can from the District Four girl. Glimmer murmurs into her ear sympathetically.

"I think the most interesting part of the confrontation is," Claudius says, "the fact that Belle, from District 4, doesn't have any reason to care for Markos. Back in their own District they hardly even knew each other. Oh, wait, I think I'm getting a message from Anubis, my reporter back at Four. Oh really! Ladies and gentlemen, I have found the missing connection between the two. Markos has an older brother, and it seems that Belle has had her eye on this mysterious sibling for a while. Perhaps that's why she is so desperate to save this little boy."

"What do you want then, huh, Lover Boy?" Cato sneers.

"I have a proposition for you," calls Peeta. "You can accept it, and we'll all be happy or I can snap this boy's neck."

That's when I realize what the sickening sensation in my stomach is from. This isn't the solid, dependable and I've-got-to-do-things-right-for-the-sake-of-everyone-I-love Peeta. This isn't Peeta at all. The boy I knew would never even consider committing murder over death. He was righteous and noble in some ridiculous idiotic way.

"What?" the District 1 boy calls calmly, evidently willing to consider it, unlike the huge, bristling District 2 boy at his side.

Effie Trinket totters in with a man in a rich purple suit, chattering about the feelings that Peeta has for Katniss. Hm. I hadn't even noticed she'd left. "You see," she says, gesturing towards the screen where Peeta stands shakily, "he is just so charming."

"It's true," the man muses. "I will put in a small sponsorship, perhaps." There's a slight burr to his tone, as if he's from the lower classes of the Capitol. But he's too rich to be a lower class citizen.

Effie Trinket practically takes him by the arm and drags him over to a small booth which contains all the sponsor's signatures. "Lovely! The prices start at $50,000…"

"So what is the proposition of yours then? Try not to cut yourself thinking too hard," says Cato.

"Baseless insults mean nothing," Peeta replied calmly. "But despite your pathetic capability to come up with stinging insults, I know that you have some uses."

Cato's nostrils flare. "What did you say?"

Peeta ignores him and continues. "I have something you need. And you have something I want."

Cato begins replying again, but Marvel cuts him off. "What is it? Surely you aren't referring to Markos, because as excellent an assassin as he is, he's replaceable." The girl from Four looks distressed at the sentence, but she doesn't speak.

Markos kicks at the words, but Peeta tightens his muscles. You can tell that the space that had originally been left for the boy to breathe had been crushed down to a tiny, whistling hole. He gasps and twists his head to the side, trying to free his airway, small hands clawing at his throat.

"No. I'm referring to Katniss."

Effie and the man in the purple suit had come back out, just in time to hear the sentence. "What did he say?" the suited man asks.

"I'm not exactly sure," says Effie. "What did he say, Haymitch?"

"Katniss," I echo vaguely.

The man shoots a sharp look at Effie. "He's selling the girl out? Were you not just talking about how charming and perfect and caring he was? The way you spun I'd have thought anyone with the ability of empathy should try and make these two come out alive. Were you lying?" he says angrily.

"Um...well..." Effie says, wide eyed and at a loss for words.

"It's a strategy," I offer calmly. "He's going to make sure that they never find her."

"What? By telling them where she is?"

"By telling them where she isn't. You see, he can't fight them. Not really. But misleading them will give Katniss the chance to kill them with that eleven of hers."

He glares at me suspiciously, still not buying it. "Would he not be killed along with the Careers as well then?"

I sigh, as if this pains me. It actually does, but I wouldn't be showing it at all if I didn't have to. "That's the thing that makes Peeta wonderful. If she think he betrayed her, she'll feel no remorse in killing him, and therefore after she wins, she won't be tormented by grief."

I see the man's eyes soften, and I know I've got him. "Alright," he says finally, turning silently to the screen to watch.

"That silly girl?" Clove had been saying. "What, you think we need you to coax her out of whatever hole she's hiding in?" She snorts.

Peeta raises an eyebrow. "You think you can catch her?"

"She did get that eleven in training," Belle mutters.

"Shut up!" replies Glimmer harshly in a hushed tone. "It doesn't matter."

"But does it though? You don't know her. I do."

You can see that they're hesitant now. Belle and Glimmer are shifting nervously, casting anxious glances towards Marvel. The District 1 boy's eyes are serious and thoughtful. "I think—"

"Have you forgotten who's in charge, Marvel? We agreed on this already," snarls Cato. The other boy falls silent moodily, but there's a glare in his eyes that says he's not happy about the matter.

Cato smirks. "Good. Now, Clove."

I barely register what happens next until I hear Markos screaming in agony, a crude iron knife handle stemming from his eye socket. It's a long drawn out wail that peters into pained gasps and whimpers. Peeta drops him out of shock, but he collapses to the floor.

"What did you do?!" screeches Belle. "He—he was—"

"A liability," Cato sneers coldly. "And now he won't be. Finish him."

The slender, dark haired girl saunters up to the kneeling boy who is clutching his eye in disbelief. A long knife is selected and mere moments later the deed is done. A clean knife in the back and the limp body collapses.

"And Markos, boy tribute of District 4 is dead!"

* * *

Katniss has not stopped moving at all for the past few hours. There's been a lull in the Games in which the Career pack has been combing the woods, tributes have just been on the move, and body collection and counting has been done. This is time for talking, but I am reluctant to move.

"Haymitch," Effie nags, "oughtn't you go sign up sponsors? We've only got small ones so far and you've yet to talk to any. We need a big funder."

"Can't you?" I say vaguely, pretending to be solely concentrated on Katniss trekking up a small knoll.

She whines for a while longer, so I eventually relent, just to shut her up. "Watch Katniss and Peeta and tell me if anything important comes up," I instruct.

"Yes, yes," she says impatiently. "Just take this and leave."

A small, handheld television screen is shoved into my grasp. I stride out of the door quickly, letting it slam shut just to irritate the confounded woman.

"My, you musn't be so harsh, Haymitch," I hear a mild voice say.

I turn around, raising an eyebrow. "Finnick. I'm sorry that you...lost your chance," I say carefully, referring to Markos, whom Finnick had been mentoring.

"It's alright," he says flippantly, but there's a tightness around the corners of his eyes. It disappears soon enough though and a charming smile replaces it. "I just thought I'd introduce you to Beetee."

I know Beetee already and I recognize him easily. Sure, he's dressed up a bit more smartly, but he still gives off an eccentric sort of aura. "And this is Wiress. She's a bit vague and not really a part of things."

Not really a part of things; translation: doesn't know about that. "I see. Nice to meet you."

"You as well," she replied peaceably. "Good luck as well. I understand that both Katniss and Peeta are still in the running?"

I pull my mobile television out of my pocket and flick the power switch. Katniss is still trekking through the pine woods. I show it to her, switching it to Peeta so she can see that as well. He's trailing slightly behind the Career pack moodily as they scour the woods. "Look, they're fine."

"Excuse me, am I interrupting something?"

My gaze centers on the newest arrival, my hand retracting the screen automatically. It's the man in the purple suit. "Ah, no, not at all. Mr. Fabian Jesuit, is it?" I say.

"Yes," he replies, his accent as rich and pronounced as ever. "I got to talk to your escort, but I feel that you are the intelligence behind your tributes." He turns slightly to address us all. "Perhaps we could sit down and have a few drinks together? I must say, I am interested in scouting out potential victors from other districts to sponsor as well."

His not so subtle hinting that his loyalty (money) had not yet been ascertained to any district was obviously directed at Beetee and I. He almost scorned Wiress and Finnick, of which both their tributes had already been marked as "deceased."

"Absolutely," I reply.

Finnick smiles charmingly, but that tightness around his eyes is back again. "No thank you," he replies smoothly. "I'll pass."

Jesuit shrugs. "Okay then. Beetee?"

Finnick doesn't stare long enough to be impolite, but he does stare hard at Jesuit before striding down the curving hallway. Beetee fidgets nervously with a small gadget in his pocket. "Sure," he mutters. "Come on Wiress."

"What? Why? Oh okay." She goes from confused to complete knowledge of the situation in just a glance.

"Good," says Jesuit, smiling in a way that seems completely genuine. He doesn't have any Capitol alterations that make him entirely odd to behold, relatively normal except for powdery white tips to his hair and a hint of a glittering navy tattoo snaking up from his collar. The suit just screams of money, heavy and sharp, cutting an impressive figure with detailed silver embroidery on the edges and gold cufflinks, fifteen, no, twenty thousand easily. "I know just the place..." He strides away, leaving us to trail along behind him.

I decide that I don't like the man; he has too much money for my liking. But it's for Peeta. And Katniss. I sigh. "Lead the way."


	10. Perhaps Not Yet

**A/N: New chapter! Yay (finally)! I haven't had a lot of chances to write, but I think I can safely say that I'll update at least every other Thursday morning. **

**Review, favorite, and follow! ^.^**

_A giant sword blade comes hurtling viciously down on my right but I side step and slip right through the District 4 boy's guard and slit his throat. Their previous jeering and laughing at finding another "victim" to add onto their kill list had turned into cries of anger. The two that were left charged me simultaneously. _

_I manage to slay another one with silent, cold, precision, completely unlike the first time I had killed. That time I had spent the better part of the day heaving whatever I'd just ate out of my stomach and when nothing was left, just choking and spluttering. A waste of valuable food but I suppose there was nothing else I could have done. That was not the case now. _

_I turn around, as fast as I can, which, believe me, is wicked fast. But still I'm a little too slow. I let out a pained cry as my arm is wrenched up behind me, my knife tumbling from my fingers. It lands on the grassy ground with a dull thud. _

_"Thanks for taking care of those two," the boy from District 1 hisses in my ear. "It saves me the effort of getting rid of them. And now, you're gonna —ah!"_

_A gurgling sound bubbles up in his throat and he collapses, frothing at the mouth. _

_"We'd live longer with two of us," says a soft voice that I recognize instantly. _

_I know which line comes next. Guess you just proved that. Allies? But my throat is stuck for some reason. I blink several times, rapidly, to clear my blurring vision. "Maysilee?" I ask blearily. I can't see anything, just the fallen Careers' bodies morphing, as if they were molting feathers and turning candy pink, long, thin beaks protruding out of their faces..._

_"Maysilee!"_

_Her screams fill the air._

The screaming doesn't stop even as I wake up, and for a few heart stopping moments, I feel that it actually is Maysilee and that my entire life has been a dream, the Games being the reality. But soon enough I am lucid enough to realize that the voice is not hers.

I roll over in my bed, groaning. There's a crick in my neck and a red dent in the side of the flesh where I slept on the small portable television. It's currently blaring on the loudest volume setting.

I confirm that the screaming had been coming from the television, but it's stopped now, and I hear the laughter and congratulations of what can only be Careers. Curiously, I sit up and survey the the scene, wondering how much role Peeta had had in the District 8 girl's death.

I find him still lurking near the back, evidently having not contributed much. So I flip to Katniss's channel, to the camera following her. The scene doesn't change. Confused, I flip through all the channels, but...oh dear.

Only the occasional flash of dirt smeared orange backpack and dulled green jacket can be seen through the tree cover, but she is there. Her expression is hidden though, the camera view unable to penetrate the foliage cover. I am grateful for that at least. She's in for more surprises than she could ever imagine.

Despite my thoughts being elsewhere, Maysilee's screams still echo in my ears hauntingly. Sleep has been giving no relief from the Games. I spend the day immersed in the pine woods and tall grass; the night is filled with meadows and mountains. My dreams have become more vivid, present and past mingling into some sort of crazy parallel universe. Some dreams make sense and some don't.

Katniss isn't at an angle in which she can see Peeta. And he absolutely cannot tell that she is there. She'll be mad, I know. More than mad, betrayed and confused. I don't understand the depth of her care for Peeta, but it definitely isn't as much as he cares for her. She won't hesitate to write him off as 'enemy' once she sees it with her own eyes. I know her.

Peeta however...hopefully he won't see her. Not yet.

I change to the main channel to see whether the commentary will be on yet or not. Claudius Templesmith's voice booms from the device. It's showing the District 8 girl convulsing on the ground, locked in death throes. "She's not dead yet! Surely, the Alliance must be having their suspicions. If they keep circling around her they might discover Katniss who has been hiding above them, for all of your who just tuned in."

Sure enough, the Careers are squabbling about the lack of a cannon sounding. It is just normal Careers squabbling, until Peeta raises his voice for the first time. "We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

There's a sudden rustling from the tree. "It looks like Katniss Everdeen has just discovered Peeta's betrayal! We'll be waiting for her reaction folks, don't leave just yet."

The Careers, thankfully, are too preoccupied to notice. They let Peeta leave, and quietly begin discussing him behind his back. I'm half glad that Katniss can hear the conversation.

I can imagine her fury, and her thoughts. She will eagerly watch the night sky for signs of his death now, if she doesn't kill him herself. I almost wish that she knew the truth but it would be better for both of them if she didn't.

Listening to the track of their conversation, the Careers evidently don't find Peeta as much of a threat yet. But he's back soon enough, and the cannon fires. The Career pack moves off.  
But Katniss does not drop out of the tree just yet. She lingers for a few moments, probably thinking and preparing for her close up on landing. So the camera follows the Careers pack for a while, then flits back to Katniss where she's bound to land sometime soon.

The willow branches rustle when she slides out of the tree. She pauses. The cameras lock. Then she cocks her head slightly to the side and gives a knowing smile. Claudius Templesmith goes crazy. "What on earth could this mean?! Katniss Everdeen is one step ahead of the game, as always."

Since when, 'always?' Well, I wasn't about to argue. She had done a convincing enough job I suppose.

Grimacing, I roll out of the bed. The fluffy blankets are mussed and a slightly dirtier color than the pristine white they were the day before, probably due to the fact that I slept fully clothed, even though the suit I was wearing wasn't precisely comfortable. At least I had the sense to take my shoes and tie off so I wouldn't accidentally choke to death.

The previous night had been idle, yet exhausting. The sponsor, Fabian Jesuit, had kept me on my feet (figuratively) all throughout the night, but I believe he was going to be a big sponsor now, at least. It should be worth it.

I shower and re-dress in a new, unwrinkled suit, something a bit classier than usual, a grayish black with subtle striping and a tie to match. It ought to live up to Capitol standards, as just another part of the show.

I glance down at the screen nestled in the palm of my hand. Katniss is taking a rabbit off a snare. Soon, she finds the District 8 girl's fire and cooks it. Good. It's slightly reassuring, but I've noticed that she still hasn't come across any water. It's not a good sign.

Reminding myself to check the map when I got to the Games Headquarters, I pop into the elevator and ride the twelve floors down. The mentors, escorts and stylists of each District are staying in a residential building five minutes drive away

I flag a taxi easily. Well of course; Capitol people wake up late. The driver is unnaturally bright and energetic, a can of highly caffeinated soda next to her. She's young, early twenties, maybe, wearing a shirt that shows too much skin. Her eyes are a shimmering, unnatural silver-blue sunk in deep shadows of contrasting black makeup. She greets me. "Good morning! Where to?"

"The Games Headquarters."

"A mentor, is it? You have a card? Just swipe it right here."

The small panel flashes my name when I do, and the driver goes, "Haymitch Abernathy? You're District 12, right?"

"Yeah," I reply, although I'm not quite sure why I'm even bothering to talk to her. She's not going to sponsor Katniss or Peeta and I hate Capitolists anyways.

"Oh my gosh, I love Peeta! The way he goes after Katniss is so sweet, and guh, he's just sexy as hell. I don't understand why he would join the Alliance, they're trying to hunt Katniss."

I snort as the engine starts rumbling. "Is that what you think it is?" I drawl, leaning back in the cushioned seat. They were all in pristine condition, unsurprisingly.

As the taxi stops at a red light she turns around in her seat and looks at me. "Well what else could it be?"

These people could be so shallow. Did they all see things at such a surface value? "He's doing it for her. I know him better than anyone."

Her eyes widen, looking mystified, but a car honks her, so she hurriedly turns back to the front. "Really?"

I shrug. "What, you think all that at the interviews was an act?"

"No, I know true love when I see it," she says smugly. "He's in love with her. So what's his plan?"

"Classified," I say, looking out the window. The shiny white, gray, and red buildings flash by. There's barely any traffic at all, so we're zooming by at 100 miles per hour. It reminds me of the exhilaration the first time I'd been in a car.

"What?" she wails. "Come on. I love gossip."

A thought occurs to me. If it got around that Peeta was joining the Careers just for Katniss, then sponsors would be more sympathetic. Not to mention how much more effective it would be coming from a direct source. Such as me. "Well I can tell you one thing. Peeta isn't leading them towards Katniss. He's trying to lead them away from her."

"Tell me more," she encourages.

"But that's not it. He knows that if she's to win then he has to die."

She sucks in a dramatic breath but doesn't say anything.

"And don't tell too many people about this part," I warn, knowing that if I say that, she'll probably spread it everywhere. "But Peeta's plan is even more elaborate. He's pretending to be on the enemy side so that when he dies, which he will if Katniss is to go back and live her life, she won't be consumed by guilt and she'll live happily ever after."

The only sounds that greet me are soft sniffles. "That's..." she murmurs at last. "That's true love."

I nod somberly. For some reason this innocent, stupid little Capitol girl who doesn't know any better feeling emotion isn't making any sense to me. Why should she care? It's just a show to all of them anyways. It's not like they actually care about Peeta or Katniss.

The soft tear sounds fall silent as the taxi draws to a stop. "$15.50," she mutters. "And thank you."

I hand over the money and make as if to leave, but I can't resist asking one more question. "What's your name?"

Flat discs of shimmering silver-blue look up at me. I resist the urge to shudder at their alienness. "Cassandra Graypearl. But call me Cassie." She smiles, friendly.

I nod, then walk away. The cab door is closed and she drives away. She's probably a college student making a few extra bucks taxi driving, maybe with a rich parent if she got the privilege of catering to mentors. Still, I'd always thought of Capitol people as not quite human anymore with such alterations.  
But for some reason, Cassie had seemed just human for a moment, sitting there, alien blue-gray eyes filled with tears.

They still reminded me of another pair of blue eyes, a shade lighter and not quite so silver. But the tears are the same nonetheless.

* * *

People are still buzzing from the excitement of the first day of the Games. Gamemakers are relaxed, mentors are on their toes, and sponsors are teetering on fences. But I knew today wasn't the day they'd fall. A few bets are always placed in the days before the Games begin, on the very likely looking tributes, but most are placed once the Games are in full flow, after the weakest are killed off.

The first day is crucial to get sponsors, of course, but the second day isn't as much. Sponsors have already seen the first deaths of the weakest in fighting; now natural causes are starting to kick in. Dehydration, illness, starvation. Some tributes will be starting to feel those effects, and sponsors will be watching closely.

It doesn't take a lot of close watching to realize that Katniss is one of those tributes.

Barely past noontime and she's already exhausted, licking her lips and panting. She's travelling down a valley away from the lake. That's good, the Careers and Peeta will be around the lake. But where can she go...

I turn to the holographic map projected on the table in the middle of the District 12 meeting room. There are three water sources: the lake and two streams. I sigh, relieved. One was in the valley she was heading for. But would she find it in time? I knew from experience that she could probably wander around it all day without really finding, especially in her dehydrated state.

I consider the possibility of having to send her water. For some reason, I feel as if I can't deny her. I frown. I know how Peeta would be like if I'd even consider not giving her water. But I'm not Peeta.  
I sit there for a while, pondering, leaning back in my chair, scrolling through sections of the map until late afternoon. Effie strolls in for a bit so we talk, about Peeta and Katniss and sponsors. We evidently have more than enough for a pint of water, but I'm still worried that it will be a show of weakness if Katniss can't even get water. Best for her to find the stream. I'm confident in her abilities. Or so I tell myself.

There's a knock at the door.

"Who could that be?" asks Effie, mystified. I shrug. "Come in!" she trills.

None other than Finnick Odair walks in. I raise an eyebrow. "I've been seeing a lot of you lately."

"Really?" asks Effie. "I haven't seen you around anywhere at all!" She gives a little giggle. "Nice to see you, ."

He gives her a generous smile, and she practically swoons. It's nice to see that even grown women are affected by the Finnick effect. "You too, ," he says, smiling.

"So what do you want?" I ask gruffly.

"Want?" he says innocently. "Oh, I could ask nothing from you," he says, although he seems to be directing the answer more at Effie. "I just wanted to ask if you were up for a meeting later at the extra office."

Effie blinks confusedly. "Really? But...Markos is already dead."

"Yeah, I just wanted to piss off the rest of the mentors of the Alliance for their tributes betraying Markos so early in the Games by not allowing them to use that room. That's all. But you need two mentors signatures for that, at least."

Apparently grown women also think that acting childish is quite dashing says Effie's tinkling laughs. "Oh, I can do that for you. My signature passes as well."

Finnick smiles. "Well I've already filled out the rest of today and most of tomorrow so if you could pop over there and sign it...?"

"Of course!" she says, and runs out of the room to go do that right away.

I watch her leave. "Why do you always act like that?" I ask when she's gone.

"What?"

"Charming. Seductive. Playing to what people like. You hate acting like that."

He shifts back into being moody. "I guess I'm used to it. I've gotten so good at acting it out I can't tell the difference anymore when I'm around people." He props his chin on his hand after he sits.

There's a moment when everything just falls away, and he's not protected by a barrier of personalities and he's just...Finnick.

"So what are you here for?" I ask eventually.

His eyes light up again, on business. "Oh, well Hawkins sent me around as courier, because I haven't got as much to do as anyone else. Well, except Johanna but she's not going to be anyone's courier."  
Both their tributes were dead. But so was Cecilia's and Woof's. "What about District 8?"

He shrugs, the simple motion executed as a graceful lifting of his shoulders. "They've been getting busy back at their own District. Hawkins sent them on some kind of 'mission.'" His exaggerated bunny ears around the word mission are almost comical. "I don't really know what it is, but he's planning a meeting soon so I suppose we'll find out then."

"Are all the mentors going to be there this time?"

"I doubt it," he replies idly. "It doesn't really happen. Most, maybe."

As if with an effort the gleam is back in his eye and he's moistening his lips. He clears his throat and looks at me sidelong. "You know, I've always thought about what we could do as victors. It's not much really, when you think about it."

I stare at him. "What?"

"Well I was talking to Angie the other day, and she was wondering the same thing. It's like Hawkins expects us to have some sort of power by being a slave of the Capitol."

I scrutinize Finnick but his expression is now studiously blank. "We are symbols," I say slowly.

"Yeah, for the Capitol," he replies, "'As a symbol of our generosity, the lone victor will be bequeathed with gifts,'" he says, quoting the videos they play every year at the Reaping about Panem. "Is that what we are? Symbols of the Capitol's generosity?" he spits.

I have to appreciate Finnick's courage to say such a thing in a Capitol building, but I can't admire his stupidity. "Be quiet," I hiss, and lean closer to him, speaking even softer. "Look, if you want to know the answer, I'll tell you when we're not here."

His eyes narrow and he jerks away. "You know what Hawkins told me?" he asks. "He asked me if I knew what we needed."

"What?" I ask brusquely.

"A victor. We need a victor. But not just any victor, we need..."

Suddenly his words remind of something I'd heard before. Cinna. Hadn't he said something about being special? He said it about Katniss; about me. To be more than just a victor. "A rebel," I breathe.

There's a brief silence from the other end. "Yes, one of those." The smirk is back on his face and I know the conversation is done. "I'll see you later then, Haymitch."

I nod. "See you."

He leaves with a patter of quick steps. If not a tribute, if not a victor...a rebel. I turn my attention back to the screen, back at Katniss travelling through the lush forest. I couldn't picture her on a television screen, swirled with dust and smoke as she rallied troops. That I couldn't. Perhaps not yet.

But I could feel a glimmer of hope stir the air.


	11. Nervous Reaction

**A/N: Here's the chapter, right on time! Yeah, I know two weeks is kinda long; even I feel like it is. :/ But I dunno if I can do weekly updates. Anyways, I've been working on some side stuff too, just to take a break from the mantra of Haymitch, Haymitch, Haymitch, but I sort of ended up doing a little piece connected to this one. Maybe I'll post it...someday. **

**And for some of you people who realized that some details aren't quite right, I haven't been going entirely by the Hunger Games book, I've almost picked some things from the movie. I use the parts that seem the most realistic (or just most interesting) to me.**

**Thankyouthankyouthankyou to Raissa, Norbert's Mom, KatPee81, awesome 3, Minto Labingi, and Emptyword for reviewing! It was lovely and inspiring and just plain awesome. I'm glad that you like the story. :)**

It's weird how whenever I try to find someone it takes hours of wandering before I even get a clue to where they are, but whenever someone needs to speak to me I am easily found. Maybe I'm getting too predictable.

Honestly, if Cinna wasn't in his room, the styling rooms, the Games Headquarters, the District 12 room (although I'd doubted that one because I'd never seen him in there anyways), the drawing room, his office, and no one had seen him anywhere, then where was he?

I grimace. I knew deciding to look for the elusive stylist was not a good idea. But ever since that conversation with Finnick I wanted to talk to him — or at least see him — again.

After I'd woken up around 3 or 4 in the morning, unable to sleep after another restless nightmare, I planned to go banging on his door but he hadn't even been there, the room silent and door slightly ajar. So the rest of the morning was wasted wandering about looking for him to no avail.

Well isn't this great. I'm back where I started: at my room. I sigh and enter, flicking open the handheld television as I go. It turns on automatically, Katniss being featured. Claudius Templesmith's voice also comes on. "—ing. Katniss Everdeen is drastically dehydrated, she'll probably be dead within the day if she doesn't find water soon. Whaddya think, Caesar?"

The scene changes to a live conversation. "I rather liked her," says Caesar Flickerman mournfully. "She seemed like a wonderful girl."

"Yes, but the odds were not in her favor. She's definitely one of the smaller tributes and so far she doesn't seem to have any particular weaponry skills."

"She was very handy with that snare making though."

If only they knew. I wonder if they'd care about how she learned the skill? I doubt most of them would even realize that she hunted illegally.

"Very true. I would have liked for her to be in the final 8; perhaps we could have heard from her sister then."

"Yes..."

I'm ruffling through my drawers for no real reason when I see a gleam. I pull out the suit that I was wearing on that day that I sat down with Plutarch, and a pen falls out of its fold. That's funny. I could have sworn that I gave that pen to Cinna.

I pick it up and examine it more carefully. It doesn't seem any different. But when I click the end to try writing the code, a slip of paper falls out from a slit in the side. It contains only a few simple words.

Find District Thirteen.

I frown. District 13...? What? That didn't make any sense. I try just writing the KCS code instead, but when it activates it just hums and goes back to sleep even when I try telling it my name.

I put it down and wreck the rest of my room too, hoping to find a clue, all the while listening to Claudius's commentary.

"It seems that the star-crossed lovers never even had a chance," he is saying. "Their odds are not fortunate it seems. What do you think, you old romantic?"

Caesar chuckles. "They say that love trumps all. Perhaps they will pull through yet."

"Ah, well if you say so."

The desk's drawers are all yanked apart. I find a few sets of keys that seem to be from the Capitol, as they all bear the Capitol seal, and a blank notepad with a few pens, but nothing about District 13. I reflect on what I remember about the video on the decimation of District 13 they always showed us in school when I was younger, but twenty four years of drinking have dulled my memory somewhat.

"Well let's see what going on with Peeta then."

I glance at the screen. Peeta and the Careers are travelling slightly in Katniss direction but I am slightly less worried about them rather than Katniss's more immediate problem. The audio is turned on. "We haven't found anyone in days," one of the girls complains, most likely the one from 1, Glimmer. Belle, the girl from District Four is moodily quiet. It seems she has been since Markos was killed.

"We're bound to run into someone soon," mutters Marvel.

"And if we even if we don't the Gamemakers will drive someone towards us anyways," Cato affirms. "So don't worry; so long as we keep a certain perimeter every day we will run into someone."

I am surprised that the boy from District 2 can even sound so intelligent. He seemed like just a raging, carnal beast during the Bloodbath and like a dull-witted idiot whilst trying to insult Peeta and negotiate with him afterwards.

"They sound confident," comments Caesar. "Perhaps you should get a Gamemaker up here to ask about that."

"I was just about to suggest that!" says Claudius. "In fact, here he is."

There are sounds of cheering, then: "Thank you Claudius! I can't say how exciting it is to be here."

This time I actually turn to stare at the device. I pick it up and sit on the edge of the bed, immediately absorbed.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee!"

The camera sweeps over a crowd of cheering, adoring fans who all scream for attention.

"Tell me Plutarch, what do you suppose the Careers meant by 'the Gamemakers will drive someone towards us anyways?' Would you really?"

Plutarch smiles winningly. "I can't say about Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane, but pushing tributes towards each other is one of the best parts of the Games."

Suddenly, I hear a slight rustling even through the sound of the blaring television. I freeze, automatically breathing more lightly, an instinctive nervous reaction from the victor of the 50th Hunger Games in which almost everything was poisonous.

Nothing happens, so I resume my previous task slightly more unnerved than before.

"Really?" says Claudius. "Tell me more."

Plutarch nods and clears his throat as if preparing for a long speech. The audience laughs at his theatrics. "Well first of all, watching the tributes interact is just fascinating; you must know about that, being the one always dissecting their relationships."

Claudius makes as if to answer but Plutarch just plows through him. "But let me tell you a secret: what people really want to see is a show, and I think that it's the Gamemakers' jobs to do that."

The crowd is silent and attentive, listening to his words. It's in this silence that I hear the rustling again. I spin around, dropping the screen.

"It's also quite a bit of fun to play God too," Plutarch adds, and there are a few chuckles although I'm not sure if he's trying to make a joke or not. "But we are always thinking of Panem's interests above all. The Hunger Games are a symbolic event and it's our job to make it that way."

Claudius nods solemnly. "Well then. Thank you Plutarch Heavensbee! We'll be calling you back in a half an hour for your formal review, but for now it's back to ."

Plutarch smiles and waves as he dismounts the steps, and polite cheers and applause follow. Thoughtfully, I switch channels, to something greener and softer than the harsh lights of the Capitol. Peeta. And Katniss. She travels still, but increasingly slowly. She hasn't showed any real signs of wear yet, but it was only a matter of time. Time... I change to the manual channel and spend a few moments checking out the other non-Career tributes.

District 3, the boy travels frightened, crouching as if he could make himself less visible to the camera that way. District 5, the girl with a mane of flaming red hair hides in the bushes near the lake, cunningly watching and waiting for any chance for her to sneak in for a drink. District 10, Hugo pulls himself into a tree with tremendous arm strength due to lack of the ability to gain a foothold to rob a bird's nest hanging precariously low. District 11, the girl is flitting through the trees like a squirrel, or a bird, the cause of her seven in training most likely, acting like she'd grown up among the branches. Which she probably had, to be fair. The giant boy is resting under cover of the tall grasses, unaware of the deadly poisonous snakes that nested idly near him. They were all barely surviving themselves, probably unable to take on the vicious Career pack.

Resigned to my previous task, I flip through a notepad, scanning it quickly for notes. Of course there are none. Just

"Find District 13." What was that supposed to mean? "Thirteen, thirteen," I mutter softly.

I catch a flash of green eyes and gold eyeliner out of the corner of my eye, just in time to hear, "Are you looking for something?"

I turn around slowly, saying, "Hello Cinna. It's not like I was trying to find you all morning or anything, but how are you?"

"Oh, it's no problem," he replies drolly, smiling. "I'm fine. Did you happen to be looking for something related to..."

I shrug. "District 13? Yeah, although I'd be hard pressed trying to find an entire District residing in my bedroom drawers."

"I'd imagine so," he replies solemnly. He looks around. "You still have that pen?"

"Yep. Dunno what you'd want with it though; I thought you had mine."

"Indeed I do. Come on then; I'll show you to where Plutarch is." He turns and gestures for me to follow, eyes lightening.

"No way in hell," I scoff, getting to my feet and crossing my arms. "Never said I trusted you again. I just want to talk."

He leans in against the wall, appearing to settle in for what would appear to be a long talk. One hand distractedly reaches up to touch the corner of his eye and he glances at it, as if to check that his makeup hasn't been smudged.

"So?"

I hesitate, breath catching uncomfortably. Now that I've found him all my previous ideas have mysteriously vanished. "What do you want?" I ask at last.

He shrugs. "You were the one looking for me."

"What did you mean?" I revise. "In our earlier conversation."

"Which one?"

He seems determined to pry the answer from me. I stand up, eyebrows knotting in irritation. "You know which one."  
A little smile quirks at the edges of his lips and he stands up straighter, almost leaning forward in curiosity. "I knew it. I knew you could be on our side. Rebel," he adds. He nods, seeming to reassure himself, and his tone darkens.

"We can arrange a short meeting. Very soon. So long as you don't take a step out of line. You may be something valuable, and someone that I've almost had the privilege to call friend, but if you reveal him, then he's dead. And so are all of us."

"Us?" I raise an eyebrow. I wasn't liking the sound of this _at all._

"It's dangerous business," he mutters. "Plutarch's interview won't be for a while yet. We'll have time, but not a lot. But we can't be seen."

"Where?"

"Right under the City Circle stage."

My eyes must have popped right out of my head. "What?"

"He can't move much farther away than that!"

"Too dangerous," I deny immediately. "I'll figure this out myself later. You people are crazy."

"It's safe," Cinna insists, walking up to me.

"There are cameras!"

In reply, he holds up a small device. I recognize it immediately. It's a small contraption, invented a few years ago by some District worker in Three. After attaching it to a camera lens, a person can program it to either display a picture, pre-recorded feed, or a replay of certain events. Conveniently, it also tampers with the recording, so that if anyone cares to look at old feed the time in which the lens cap is being placed is wiped as well.

"Plutarch has another one on him. If I can just send him a signal, he can set it up now and arrange the meeting."

"You sound like his lap dog now," I grumble, but I can see that I am soon going to relent. "What happened?"

Cinna gives a half smile. "Do I? Plutarch is just the organizer so I have to refer to him a lot, but I answer to nobody." There is a reckless, rebellious look in his clear, green eyes.

"That's gonna get you killed someday, sonny," I reply, turning around to pick up a coat from the floor. "And don't give me any of that dying for a good cause crap. That's what naive, idealistic college kids say so that they can have a bit more fun in the late nights."

Cinna shakes his head. "No, I just believe that people need a channel for their emotions. Most people bottle them up, and ignore their natural repulsion to the world around them. It's only natural. But I think that if you can just let it go...well then."

"Then you get someone like you," I say. I almost felt bad for the man. "So show me where we're going."

* * *

It was a darker room than I had previously imagined. When one pictures the City Circle, it is usually full of glaring lights, cameras, and shouts of exhilaration. Some describe it as awesome. I describe it as possibly the most nauseating thing I've ever experienced, and that's saying something.

Therefore it's a welcome relief to find that the waiting room under the stage is dark and almost completely soundproofed. Sadly, cameras are something that cannot be avoided outright. But Cinna and I are able to dodge many of the camera on the way there. He knows all the less used passageways and how to use obstacles to block the views.

By the time we wind below the stage Plutarch has already set up the camera block and is motioning us in. He has a private room, which I am thankful for. I don't know if I can deal with other people right now.

Plutarch himself is dressed with a very theatrical cape, ink black and cockily swept around his broad shoulders. It shimmers vibrant colors, like an oil slick, as he stands up. I don't recall him wearing it during the interview when I'd seen him earlier. After commenting on it, he replies flippantly, "It's a new fashion." He leans forward to whisper more softly, "I wear 'new fashions' when it's safe to talk."

"Then why are you talking so quietly?" I reply in the same tone.

He straightens. "No such thing as being too careful," he says cautiously, eyes flicking around the room.

"You debugged everywhere already, I assume?" says Cinna, coming in behind me.

He nods. "And there doesn't seem to be anyone lurking about but one never knows."

"One never does," agrees Cinna.  
I snort. "Well instead of standing around worrying about your inadequacies, why don't we get started? We're wasting time."

"True, but inadequacies could very well get you killed," mutters Plutarch, but he continues anyways. "As you wish. You've got five minutes, Abernathy." His arms cross defensively in front of his chest.

The rough way he address me is strangely unfamiliar. I suppose that all that cheeriness is just an act for the cameras, very much like how Finnick's game face was just for an audience as well. I'd never seen Plutarch in such a situation before, so part of me wanted to study it, analyze it for weaknesses and utterly exploit them, but the other part knew that there wasn't enough time for that. So I started. "What the hell does 'Find District 13' mean? Not the most subtle message, was it?"

Plutarch does give a slight chuckle to that. "Yes, I was rather excited about that one. I barely even considered code before sending it out. Code would have meant that it could takes days — weeks! — to decipher. This way sends much more clearly, and anyways, I know who has a pen. The people I give it to know how to keep it safe."

Momentarily distracted from my first topic, I say, "You sure? I would have just tossed mine in the trash. If someone found it you would have found yourself twisted up in one of those government plots to not only kill you, but to unseat you from your place of power in the end."

Plutarch shrugs. "I can disable it, and after that the tracking system on it is easy enough for me to send someone to find it and retrieve or destroy it. I can also turn the signal off from my phone, and all information is heavily encrypted unless you know the password, which changes on a daily or weekly basis."

"KCS...what does that stand for?"

Plutarch smiles. "It's not the password anymore anyways, but...KCS was just a little joke of mine. Stands for Kill—"

"Coriolanus Snow," I finish for him. "Gutsy."

"Thank you." The smirk still lingers on his face. "It's not always Morse code either, it's just that I often find that is the most convenient way to do it."

I rub my chin. Scratchy stubble clings to the end of it. "So District 13?"

His bright blue eyes grow serious. "Yeah. What do you know about it?"

"Not much— " I begin.

Cinna, who had been watching the time, interrupts. "Plutarch, we don't have much time. Just tell him."

My eyes glance to the clock. Four minutes had passed. "Fine. Talk."

He speaks quick and soft. "District 13 was never destroyed by bombs. It had always survived, through several methods that aren't important, but it had always been biding its time. Getting stronger and waiting. Now I've found out that it's formed a formidable rebellion."

"Much like yours."_ And Secrets,_ I add mentally.

"No. Much, much better," he says, almost doe-eyed. "They have a whole community committed to, well, this. It's quite amazing."

I can see how it would be. How could they not have been crushed by the Capitol already?

"You see, it had been rumored that District 13 specialized not in graphite, but in nuclear weaponry. So they did have a slight advantage in gaining something the Capitol had to hold a truce against. But they have invited us to join with them, because they need an insider who can provide high class information, and who better than us?"

"Minute's up," says Cinna tensely, and sure enough, after a few beat of silence you can hear the tell tale cheer of the crowd as another guest commentator descends the stage. "A commercial break, then you're next Plutarch. We ought to go."

I nod. I'd gotten what I'd come for.


	12. Why I Still Linger

**A/N: So sorry about the late posting! I totally neglected writing this, mostly because I was sort of lazy so I have no excuse. :P I also had a bit of a writing block for a while, and I didn't exactly get over it, but I did manage to push through this chapter at least. And thank you to Norbert's Mom, BBC Addict and Hunger Games Hungry for reviewing, much appreciated, as always! :D**

**This is also slowly being posted on AO3, but I'm not quite used to the site yet so it'll be up to speed in, er, a month tops. My AO3 username and info is all the same so if you want to find me there…that's where I'll be!**

**Reviews are yummy. :3**

Katniss had found water.

I had almost felt torn when she'd opened her throat and croaked out, "Water," so obviously directing it at me. But I had abstained, and she had persevered. In the end we had won out.

The warm, glowing sense of relief that I felt was short-lived anyways, quickly dissipating after the District Twelve girl settled in for the night. As far as I could see, both Peeta and Katniss were safe, Katniss roosting in her tree and Peeta sleeping among Careers who would not betray him. Not yet. But after one whole day of watching tributes get settled in the arena, Capitolists would be raring for some excitement — preferably bloodshed.

But something else happens, not bloodshed, but something that definitely set a lot of people thinking. It occurred in early afternoon, while the Careers and Peeta were lounging in their tents with their bounty strewn all about them. They had been arguing in the morning.

"It looks like we're going hunting," crows Cato.

His district partner, who is sitting cross-legged, jacket half open as she obsessively organizes her knives, looks up. She smiles, finally folding the wing of her jacket closed. "When are we leaving?"

The girl from District 1 yawns, stretching, and purrs, "I hope soon. I'm getting stiff here and that's no good."

"We'll leave now," says Cato in a tone that is not inviting of argument. "Marvel, you stay behind to guard, we'll circle back once we've got a few kills." He smirks.

Marvel's gaze is insulted, but far more calculating then Cato's. I can see why he doesn't seem as awed of Cato as the other Careers do, even he had scored a full point lower than the District 2 tribute. He knows why Cato got the score he did, just by looking at those bulging muscles, and he knows why he got the score he did. But he is much more cautious than the other boy, although whether that will win out or not in the end, who knows?

I find it reassuring that there are two such powerful players in the Career pack game of betrayal. It just meant that when the time came they would be hopefully able to deal more damage to each other.

So Marvel stays and the others leave. Peeta tries to look more alert, but the look on his face is as tell-tale as the droop of a dog's tail.

At noon, he is approached by a smallish boy, with quivering hands and tear streaks stained on his face: the District 3 boy. I mute the main channel, which is showing the District 5 girl with the narrow features, amber eyes and flaming red hair screaming in some type of death encounter. I hardly pay attention at all; the District 5 girl was one of those tributes who would only end up dealing damage to those who were travelling in packs or pairs. For now, the only people doing that were the Careers.

Anyways, Marvel glares suspiciously at the pathetic sight, but his gaze travels farther away and I know what he is thinking. _The boy must have an ally. _There must be someone to claim the reward while the small, wounded, frail one acted as bait. I give him credit for coming up with that one, but as I switch camera views, I know that the boy is acting alone.

"Please!" he gasps. "Don't kill me! I have a proposal!"

Marvel's eyebrows screw together. "Everyone's full of proposals these days. You, Lover Boy? Who's next?" He shifts slightly to the side to pick up a flat throwing knife. I've never seen him throw, but I figure he must at least be passable, like most Careers. "Hah. Give me a reason why I shouldn't just kill you right now?"

"B-b-because I can help you! You seemed angry about being left behind."

Marvel's eyes flash angrily. "And what would you know about that?" He holds up the knife by its blade, casually pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. "Talk, and speak quickly."

The boy looks frightened - he quivers like a leaf in the wind - but licking his lips, he says hoarsely, "Look around you."

And Marvel does, but he doesn't see anything. That's when I start noticing. The boy is barely standing, but not from fear. From fatigue. And the dirty crescents of his fingernails give away a telling story as well. "Right…here," the boy says shakily, a dirt smeared finger stretching out.

A flash from the main channel catches my eye. It's now featuring the confrontation as well, but I am disinclined to listen to Templesmith's commentary, despite the fact that Beetee is his guest commentator. They must have been watching the District 3 boy act and prepared for it.

Marvel's eyes trail along to what he is gesturing at, cautiously and with one eye still on the boy, as if he's waiting for him to somehow produce a knife or sword to sneak up on him with. He gazes at it, not understanding. But as I can see on the other screen, Beetee has just explained it, acknowledgement and awe dawning on many of the audience's faces.

A small dirt mound protrudes from the ground between the two tributes, as innocent looking as the hills and woods around them. But much more deadly.

"What's that?" growls Marvel, confused but very wary.

"A-a-all I have to do," he whispers, "is th-throw this rock." His eyebrows scrunch together, a combination of fear and determination in his features, as he raises a pebble in his right hand, holding it aloft like it was an idol. "And _boom_." His eyes squeeze shut.

Cato, by this point, would have killed the boy already, whether with knife or sword, or just plain walking up to the boy and breaking his neck. Marvel is concerned, and maybe even a bit fearful at this point, but he is not rash. "Where did you get that? There are no mines in the Games." He must be thinking that it is a bluff.

A hysterical giggle escapes his lips, like foam bubbling up from a soda can. "Hah, th-th-there are! If you know where to f-f-find them." His gaze turns, tell-tale, towards the Cornucopia.

"No." His eyes widen as he realizes what the District 3 boy is saying. "The tribute plates?" His eyes darken as they narrow. "You'll die too then. Are you really willing to do that? There are four more of us."

I vaguely realize that he didn't include Peeta. I bet many other people did as well; that would do nothing to boost his reputation. He was supposed to be the charming one who could work his way into any situation.

Fear creeps back into the figure's tiny frame. His shoulders shake with something akin to tears – or laughter. I recognize the first threads of insanity, having felt that way myself once before. "I'll die anyways. I can't survive without water and food, and I can't get it for myself. This is the only way I can do it. If I go on my own I'll just die. Yes, I will. So I have to do this."

He seems to be trying to convince himself along with Marvel. "So?" the Career asks cautiously.

"I can help you in two ways," the District 3 boy says, "by not blowing you up here and now, and by guarding your supplies for you. It's not like you'll miss the job anyways."

Marvel seems to have settled, not quite so wary now that he thinks that he has the boy figured out. He has three choices: to decline the boy's offer, in which the mine will probably be set off one way or another; to accept the offer, to however much usefulness that will be; or to kill him before he can do anything. The first one is out of the question, evidently. But because this is Marvel, and not Cato, he is actually considering the second.

This is the first weight to cause the balance of the Games to...tip.

* * *

I hardly notice when dusk breaks and night falls, my mind congested with slow thoughts. The white lights inside the Games Headquarters remain unchanging either way. It's only when Effie Trinket trills, "I'm leaving!" that I finally glance at the clock. It's well past midnight, but my mind is barely registering the fact.

"Haymitch? Aren't you going to get some sleep as well?" Effie says, mostly out of evident politeness.

I grunt. "No."

Although looking slightly appalled at the bland reply, she nods. "Very well," she says pompously. "Good night."

"Good night."

Her hand had just clenched over the door handle, but upon hearing those words she turns back in surprise. "Thank you," she says, what appears to be a genuine smile curling her lips as her eyebrows knit together. "Thank you," she repeats, nodding. Then she turns and struts out the door.

Hm. I have to admit that it was out of character for me to reply so politely, but a lot of things had felt off recently. Mostly it was in the Games; it was almost as if the reality of the situation had not really sunk into me yet. I almost believed that Katniss had a chance to win, which was baffling and illogical, to say the least.

_And Peeta,_ a small voice adds, but I deny it almost immediately as logical reasoning surfaces. "He's too kind," I mutter. Hearing an audible answer makes me feel more secure in reality. Otherwise, it sometimes seemed as if I would just drift away.

My voice echoes around the empty room with it's sharp corners and blinding white lights. _Kind, kind, _it murmurs before fading away. A sudden chill leaves my skin tingling. It's only a draft, I tell myself. A draft from the opened door since Effie just left. Then my eyebrows furrow and I glance at the clock; somehow it's already ten past twelve.

Not even considering leaving, I tell myself that I'm only staying because I know that something will happen. After all, the Games have been too quiet; surely the Gamemakers would be mixing up something special soon. But further logic only confirms the inauthenticity of that statement. The Gamemakers were unlikely to do anything during the night when most Capitolists were asleep. If anything, they would be waiting until morning.

So what was I staying in the uncomfortably lit District 12 room for? I groan and tear my eyes away from the screen for a while, closing as they teared and stung in relief. Nothing would change for a while anyways. But the moment I close my eyes the screen flashes up, imprinted on my eyelids. But instead of dark woods it contains meadow flowers and butterflies...

Another icy jolt runs up my spine, heartbeat accelerating suddenly. I stagger to my feet, gasping, eyes tearing open, but I can't escape. There's nowhere to run. I'm at the edge of the arena, standing over a cliff, but there's nowhere I can go. I'm trapped, control slipping out of my fingers.

The silence in the room is suddenly oppressing, with the only sound being my thin, whistling gasps. Looking for the stash of liquor I knew I had stashed somewhere earlier, I swivel, but I can see naught but azure sky, emerald grass and ruby petals.

My hand collides with a table edge, a shock of pain arcing up my palm and hand. I know why I still linger in the Games Headquarters. I am afraid to see my dreams.

* * *

The next few hours are an agonizing blur, of which I remember not much of except for bright lights and dark screens. But no more green meadows come to haunt me; for that I am grateful.

I'm idly glancing at the screen every few moments, eyes burning as usual, when I first notice the light. My mind registers it as the dawn sunrise, until it keeps getting brighter. Alarmed, I lean back in my chair, watching all three screens at once. All but one have bright sparks of orange glowing in them, like embers in a fire. _Fire._

Camera sweep in on Katniss and — she wakes. And bolts, like hell has been let loose on her tail.

I assess the situation immediately and sudden panic springs up within me again. A wall of fire that moved so quickly it could barely be avoided is sweeping across two, and soon three camera screens. The room's light's natural white glow is covered by licks of orange.

It could all be over in just moments, and there would be nothing I could do about it. Literally, nothing. What had I wanted to do anyways? This had all been pointless anyways; all the dabbling in secret groups and attending meetings disguised as passerby — it was all useless! What could only a few people do against the whole strength of the Capitol, with all of its power and allies?

The thought comes to me even as I watch fireballs begin to rocket across the screen, vicious juggernauts that send Katniss skittering. District 13. District 13. _District 13._ It becomes a monotonous mantra in my head. If only we could get in contact with them, then we would have some power on our sides as well. I knew that if Plutarch's information on them was actually valid, then there could only be two things they were missing: a connection to the Capitol, and a connection to the Districts.

Another fireball explodes, rendering the main camera staticky and useless, but another one, an aerial view from a hovercraft, soon replaces it. The fire has ranged over almost the entire field, yet two tributes seem to be bearing the brunt of the attack.

Katniss flees desperately, but the other is a dark haired, stumbling, yet surprisingly agile boy, who is decidedly slower than the District 12 girl, a pronounced limp defining his movements. It's Hugo, and the chase is visibly taking its toll on him, I see as I flip through the custom channels. His leg is dragging, but he still manages to be so fast.

Curious, I swivel my chair over to the handheld telephone embedded into the wall, hitting the pound key. The tone hums blankly into my ear, so I dial 10.  
Just then, Katniss gets hit.

I don't react at all; I just continue waiting for the other end of the line to pick up, but my eyes close for a brief second, trying to imagine the pain. It comes all too easily to me.

I forget about all that when the line finally connects on the fifth ring, but Hawkins — or whoever had just picked up the phone — did not appear to be in the mood to talk.

"Haymitch Abernathy," I say, voice surprisingly calm. "Hawkins?"

"Mm, not quite."

I blink. "Then surprise me, why don't you. Angerona?"

"Yes. Hawkins will be back momentarily," her cool, professional voice informs me. "What do you want?"

I raise an eyebrow despite the fact that she can't see me. "And there's a reason as to why you're in the District 10 room this early in the morning? Don't tell you spent the night."

She coughs. "Nothing quite so indelicate. I don't know if you were watching my tribute, but Finch has run into some troubles, so I stayed and took care of them. Now, your business or I'm hanging up."

For some reason, Angerona struck me as much deadlier than Hawkins. Hawkins was straightforward, but Angerona seemed more...desperate. "Private discussion. Put Hawkins on the line."

I could practically hear her shrug. "Very well."

Rustling sounds jar my ear for a moment then — "Abernathy?"

"How nice of you to direct me to your secretary."

"I was busy," he grunts.

My eyes track the aerial and the ground view. The fire is almost dying down now. "Well what a coincidence. So was I. It doesn't happen to do with the fact that both of our tributes are not only exhausted, but also badly burned and in a very vulnerable position, does it? So if you please, _sir_, I think we can help each other." I am very aware of the fact that every conversation may possibly be recorded by the Capitol, so I don't say much. After all, mentors do make deals all the time.

"What do you want?" he asks brusquely. "It's not like my face is going to draw in any sponsors."

"No, no, it's your impeccable charm that scares them away. But I was thinking we could have a meeting in the next few days. A _private one_."

Pause. "I've got a private, personal number."

"I'd love it. Talking to you is the best part of my day," I say sardonically.

"Absolutely. Will you drop by and get it or...?"

"Oh, I don't know if I'll have time... perhaps you can send someone over."

"Sure."

"Great."

Silence.

Oh well this is awkward.

Without saying another word there's a click as the phone is slid softly back into its cradle. Polite fellow, Hawkins.

I slam mine for the fun of it, relishing in the frivolousness of the simple action. It makes me feel more in control, somehow. Now I finally turn back and assess Katniss's wound. Good, at least she's soaking it in water; that'll be the best cure she has for now. I pinch my fingers and spread them apart on the screen to zoom in. The raw, burned flesh is on the upper section of her calf, and for a while, she is hesitant to get out of the water.

Slightly awkwardly, I finally check on Peeta. Throughout that entire chase, I'd hardly given him a thought, despite the fact that I knew that the Careers had actually all been quite close to the fire as well.

That dull, exhausted look hasn't left his face. The stress of the Games are affecting him more than I would like, especially considering how he had to put on a hero complex. I just wish he'd pull it together. He cannot afford this. How many times had I tried to press that on him after he'd just _happened_ to fall in love with the only girl who he couldn't afford to love?

Poor kid.

I have been neglecting him, haven't I? Even though he is the one who had taken all the risks, leaving Katniss with a better chance of survival, I still feel like helping him is so…pointless. It is a hard thing to say, but he isn't planning on winning, and Katniss is planning on winning, so isn't it a perfect balance anyways? I try to be assuaged by that explanation, but that nagging twinge in my chest refuses to go away.


	13. The Fragile Vessel

**A/N: Early update! Yay! :D I really liked this chapter, so I hope you will too. **

**It hasn't been edited/revised too well though, I have to say, because I've been turning off my inner editor for NaNoWriMo (go look it up if you don't know what it is). Um, which basically means I'm putting this on hold for the month, sorry to say. :P I would love to update this and write 50,000 words in a month, but I don't think that's possible for me. So my apologies about that, but wish me luck! ^.^**

"What do you mean the total's not enough?!" I snap. "26 million is plenty enough!" I slam my fist down on the counter, shaking with anger.

"I'm sorry, Victor Abernathy," replies the clerk calmly, "but the burn medicine of the quality you're asking for is at least 30 million. I suggest you come back later."

I shut my eyes. He evidently isn't going to budge anytime soon. "Fine," I growl, "I'll be back with 30 million."

"By the time the anthem plays today the price will have risen to 40 million," he adds snarkily. "So I suggest you get it soon."

I stalk away without replying, stiff in my fury. How in the damn world am I going to get 4 million dollars in about — my watch says it's 3 o'clock — 6 hours?! Less than that, actually, because I have to go through all the filing for it as well.

Sponsors won't go for anyone looking desperate, I know, so I keep my face studiously blank. But 6 hours isn't enough to get a new sponsor anyways; I have to go back to our old sponsors and coax some more money out of them.

As I rush back to the room where all the files were kept, I see Effie, obviously garnering for attention, so I gesture to her. Although surprised, she follows me back into the District 12 room.

"What?" she asks once the door is safely closed behind us. She sounds slightly cross. "I was having a lovely time over there."

"And if you hadn't noticed, Katniss isn't," I hiss. "We still need four million to treat that burn of hers."

Effie's perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up into her pink locks. "Four million...?!"

"Four million," I affirm.

"But we already have twenty-six million! Last I check it was only worth fifteen."

I shake my head. "That might be so, but after the fire the price of burn medicine doubled. It's 30 million now, and by 9 o'clock, it'll be 40, so I suggest we work fast. Unless you happen to have three or four million dollars handy?"

She sniffs at the sarcasm, but says, "How are we going to get a new sponsor so fast?"

"We're not. We're going after current sponsors to try to squeeze some more cash out of them. Just 2 million each, from two sponsors. You go after one, I'll go after another. Sound good?"

She nods and turns to pull papers out of a drawer, frowning as she pours over it. Finally, she hands it to me, indicating who she was planning to go after.

Hera Fierglass. I'd heard of her before; she was one of those women who would bet anything so long as the face was pretty enough. She'd gotten quite rich in the year that Finnick had won, which is where most of her current fortune comes from, but her early fortune had come from her mother, who was a famed actress. If Finnick hadn't won she would have been broke. But he had, so here she was.

"She's not gonna go all out for Katniss though," I say.

Effie purses her lips. "She doesn't have to. She just has to give an extra few million. That's barely anything to her."

I nod. "Fine." I didn't have any time to doubt Effie, so I'd just have to trust her. My eyes flick over the list. "I'll go after Jesuit, and we'll meet back here at 8:45."

From what I remember of the man, he is queer and unpredictable. But there is no one else for it, especially considering the fact that he has already invested 12 million, as our biggest sponsor. That will be an extra incentive, I hope.

Effie looks unsure, but nods.

* * *

I impatiently drum the table with my fingers as the phone hums into my ear. Finally he picks up. "Hello?"

"Hello," I say, "Mr. Jesuit. This is Haymitch Abernathy, I'd like to—"

"Ah! Mr. Abernathy. What a pleasant surprise." The burr in his tone is as pronounced as ever. "What can I do for you?"

"How would you like to dine with me today, if by chance you are free this evening?" I say, in what is hopefully not a scathing tone.

He sounds pleased. "I am free. When and where?"

"How about in the Games Headquarters at 5 o'clock. I can't leave my station for long." That will give me a reasonable time frame to coax the money out of him then meet back with Effie to talk.

"Ah, I may have business at 5. Shall we meet at 7 instead?"

Nervously, I consider. I'd have only two to get the money then. Perhaps I should just give up on Jesuit and try another sponsor? I hesitate. "Absolutely," I say finally. "Just come to the District 12 room; I'll have everything set up."

"See you then," he replies amiably.

"See you then," I echo, trying to steady my voice. Katniss needs the medicine, I think. So I will get it for her. I am determined.

* * *

When I next walk into the District 12 room I am actually surprised. I had ordered the Avoxes to make it more like a dining room instead of a conference room, and they had really gone all out.

The long, glass, rectangular table had been swapped out for a round one made of wood. There were delicate, ornamental carvings on the feet and legs, bearing elegant swirls and Capitol seals. The floor had miraculously been carpeted with something thick and plush, colored in deep maroon, the color made lovelier by the fact that the harsh white lights had been replaced by fake torches that curved out of the walls. The warm light flooded the room.

I sit down in the middle of it all, on one of the two carved chairs that are positioned on either side of the table. Relaxing minutely, I just lay back and enjoy the quiet scene.

But the moment Jesuit comes in I know something is wrong. His movements are stiff and rigid, but his face is as blank as the calm before a storm. This doesn't make any sense. Surely, it isn't because of something I had done? I politely pull out the chair for him, but he hardly looks at me, only exchanging a minimal amount of pleasantries.

Fifteen minutes in, I realize I'm not going to get anything. Jesuit is responding mechanically to anything I suggest, say, do or ask. According to his idle nods and the lack of witty small talk, so unlike when I'd first seen him, he is evidently not planning to make any big decisions for the rest of the day. More likely, he is just trying to get through the evening without biting someone's head off.

But I cannot just let him go. There isn't enough time to find another sponsor. And it shouldn't be too hard to squeeze two million out of him; two million is pocket change for a man like him.

Okay, not literally. Once main course is finished, Jesuit excuses himself for a minute to use to the restroom so I rest my head on my hand. Maybe I am being irrationally hopeful. Two million dollars is not pocket change for anyone.

I glance at my watch. **(7:52)**, it says. There is only about an hour left. I must make my move, and quickly.

When Jesuit returns, I promptly begin getting to the point. "Fabian," I start, because he had insisted that I address him such, "You haven't invested in any other tribute, have you?"

"Hm," he hums softly. Then he focuses on me. "Excuse me, what?"

"You haven't been putting in multiple investments?" I repeat, firmly as to not visibly display my nervousness.

He makes that soft, thoughtful noise again, then says, "Of course not. That would ruin the fun of the gamble." His fingers curl lightly around the stem of his wineglass. As he picks up the fragile vessel, the dark liquid inside ripples, opaque and impenetrable.

I mimic his elegance, having none of my own. "Gamble? Against whom?"

Outwardly, he gives no physical reaction. But his next words hold a tinge of concealed contempt, the first emotion I've earned from him so far this evening. "Midas Lightwater."

I'd heard of him. He came from a very long, very famous family line dating back to before the Dark Days. They originally weren't from Panem, but rather, they were from a separate, but allied country that had survived the war. Their home had soon collapsed into civil war though, so they had fled and ended up in Panem, changing their surname so as not to be rejected as foreign. Their wealth had built up slowly, but as their prestige and reputation grew their origins had been revealed.

"Midas Lightwater," I repeat under my breath, committing the name to memory. "Which District is he for?"

"Two," he replies evenly. But his right hand's fingers clench around the glass. "We made a bet on who could sponsor a winning tribute. Whatever one pays the other must match it in price. So he bet on Cato of District 2 and I bet on, well, you. Starting bet was 10 million and yesterday he threw in an extra 2 million so I paid up as well."

I open my mouth to say something but he barrels through without even noticing, so I lean back again and calmly sip wine. "It's interesting that you asked that. I ran into him earlier today. In fact, he was being rather snide about Katniss's dilemma."

Well dilemma was certainly one way to put it. My choice of words would be much less savory, because honestly, being injured, stuck in a tree, and surrounded by the Career pack was a major piece of shit.

"And that man infuriates me," he adds idly, looking as calm as ever. He picks up the bottle of opened wine and tilts it, pouring dark, rich liquid into his own glass, looking hardly infuriated.

"I would never be able to tell," I comment. "What did you bet on?"

"Private business, I'm afraid."

Upon hearing those words I back out of that topic quickly, but at least I know now what he was angry about. "Then would you consider...?"

He looks at me, actual incomprehension in his eyes. "What?"

I frown. "Two million."

His dark eyebrows raise lightly. "Two million?"

I shift, slightly uncomfortably. "You've already heard of Katniss's...predicament," I say, selecting the word out of my more tasteful vocabulary. "Naturally, something must be done."

"She is doing something," answers Jesuit blandly. "There is something about that nest that is important. If she's not planning to use her resources I don't know what I can do for her."

"You don't understand," I insist. "Even if she escapes from the Careers, that burn on her calf will take her out of the running for sure if not treated."

Jesuit seems to have finally settled. He is completely concentrated on me, but he still seems to be disagreeing with everything I propose. If only I could convince him...it was only two million dollars, I repeat to myself.

"Give me time to consider."

I wince inwardly. I can't just admit my weakness so forwardly like that. But I can't let this chance slip from my fingers either. "Jesuit, now would be a fine time to decide."

My obvious switch back to his surname should have made it obvious that I was not in the mood for friendly bartering. But his eyes narrow slightly as well. He had been irritated. "This is an interesting decision. As I've told you, my bet with Lightwater is that we wager the same amount on our tributes. He just raised the stakes to be a bother, but he knows that if I do it, you actually need of the money. That would make you desperate and me a bad decision maker."

"How? He cannot know what is going on in your mind," I insist.

The corners of Jesuit's lips twitch in a frown. "He knows Katniss is desperate enough as is."

I raise my hand vaguely, frustrated. "You... you don't gain anything from waiting either." Unconsciously, my eyes flick down to my watch. **(8:31)** Time was slipping away.

He notices too, damn. "You're on a time limit?"

I meet his eyes. "Yes," I admit. "By 21 hours today, the price for the burn medicine rises to 40 million dollars. Currently, it is worth 30 million, and I am 4 million short."

"Four million?" he asks.

"I need two million from you," I reply shortly. "Don't mind about the four million."

A tense silence follows, the pressure only prolonging the moment. "Fine," he says finally. "I'll give you two million."

I breathe a sigh of relief, flashing my watch again. **(8:39)** There is just enough time to meet Effie if I wrapped the dinner up quickly.

Luckily, Jesuit ends it for me. "I presume you are in a hurry, and I've no reason to stay here any longer." Now there is a hint of contempt in every movement he make, every word he says. Evidently he no longer respects as he did before. "Thank you for the dinner invitation."

He leaves a check in front of me and leaves.

After he is gone, I lie back for a while and just breathe. That had been much too stressful for my liking. I decide that I should concentrate more on sponsors, because I had thought that I'd known how much of an impact their money made on the games, but evidently I had still been underestimating that. It must have been an automatic result of my dislike for Capitolist help. I sigh.

After a minute or two, I start feeling that something is off. Where is Effie? My watch says (8:45), so she should have gotten the money by now. If she hadn't gotten enough cash then we were all screwed anyways. Again, I am startled by how easily hopes could be dashed. This plan could go so wrong in so many ways. And what if District 13 weren't as powerful as Plutarch had imagined? Or what if Hawkins doesn't want to cooperate with a Gamemaker? I know that I sure don't.

I sit in brooding silence.** (8:51)** Where was she?! A bubble of panic begins to grow in the pit of my stomach, until it squirms in discomfort. I feel sick.

Just then, Effie bursts in, crying, "I'm so sorry, Haymitch! She wouldn't do it!"

My stomach clenches, like the bubble had just burst. I suck in a quick breath. "It's…" I want to say it's fine, but it's not. It's not really. In the end, there was never anything I could do. There was no hope left.

"Damn it!" I shout.

Effie jumps, startled, but there is no fear or surprise in her voice when she says, "Calm down. How much did you get?"

"Two million," I snarl, swiping the piece of paper from the table top and shoving it at her. "What are we going to do now? Do you think we can get another ten million in three days? I can't go after Jesuit again, he's reluctant enough as is, but who else has that much money?"

"Haymitch," Effie says as she tries to interrupt, but I ignore her.

"I suppose we'll have to go find new sponsors. Argh, but everyone's already chosen their tributes. They're going to be holding on to their money at this point and if we go after too many people we'll look too desperate!"

"Haymitch," she repeats, a little louder.

"Oh, well then our only choice is to steal sponsors from other Districts. We'll have to go after the smaller ones first. District 3 and 10, maybe –"

"Haymitch!"

I pause mid sentence. I'd never heard Effie shout before. "What?" I ask slowly.

Wordlessly, she hands the check back to me, pointing at something. What? What is it? I think. Numbly, my eyes read the words over and over again.

Ten million.

* * *

"I need a drink!" I shout, irritated. "Where the hell did you put my liquor?!"

"I drained it, the foul stuff," replies Effie sniffily. "It's awful. And you can't be drinking so late."

"Where am I supposed to get more hard liquor? All they have is wine here and I am so sick of wine–"

Effie gives me a bright, fake smile. "Well there's a bar on the basement floor. Try passing out there for once instead of in here."

I glare at her, furious, but I walk out of the doorway anyways. I may as well try to find the damned place.

It only takes a few minutes of wandering around the basement level to hear the ruckus of what can only be drunks. To be fair, I wasn't too familiar with the sound because my own laughter was often mixed into it.

Anyways, I feel like I haven't had a drink for ages. At least, that was what the nausea in my stomach was telling me. I'd been an alcoholic for too long to not recognize withdrawal symptoms. And I really felt like a drink would just hit the spot.

Cautiously entering the softly lit room, I find a seat and order a drink immediately before orienting myself to my bearings. Loud, raucous laughters and sounds of clinking glass and ice are the dominant sounds in room. Apart from that, there is only the soft conversations of people in the corners. Dealer of who-knows-what, mostly likely.

I down hard liquor and watch the television screen in the corner. An interview. It's nothing particularly spectacular, and I'm the only one in the room watching it.

As the hours pass, people slowly filter out. A few linger in the room, but their heads drop eventually. The bartender eventually dozes off behind the counter along with the others. But I didn't go to sleep. I knew what awaited me behind closed eyelids. I wasn't prepared for that yet, despite the fact that I knew I had to sleep eventually. I could feel the pressure of it aching in the back of my heads, my natural instants willing me to just drift off...

I snap awake.

This goes on for another few hours. Not that I'm counting. But sometime around 6 in the morning, just when people have started to grumble and wake, Katniss wakes up. The television screen blares into life.

Irritably, I plug in headphone for my own portable set without the commentary. The last thing I need now is commentary distracting me.

It appears that Katniss plans to complete the plan she had started the previous day. She signals to Rue, who flits off into the trees. As Katniss watches the District Eleven girl, her eyes widen, like she is suppressing inner laughter. Trust Katniss to be amused by such a small thing while she is about to risk her life and possibly kill Peeta.

But Rue is startlingly similar to that little sister of hers...Prim, is it? If Katniss makes it to the final eight I'll have to make sure to send her family and friends a message about how to handle the interviews.

Especially Prim.

Positioning herself at the edge of the branch, Katniss takes a breath and begins sawing.

It takes about three seconds for the first tracker jacker to find its way over to her. Another follows soon after. I tense each time I watch the stinger plunge, but just as a third one makes its way towards Katniss, the nest takes its plunge.

From there, the happenings on the screen melt into chaos. All around me, people are stirring, but no one has truly registered what the screen in displaying yet. Screams erupt in my ears without Capitol commentary tempering it.

The Careers have taken the worst of the attack, Peeta and Katniss not having been spared from casualties, but they are better off than Belle and Glimmer. Both are sustaining a fatal amount of stingers and are evidently going to die.

Everyone flees for water. At this point, I hear muffled shouts from the people around me. But they are not shouts of fright; they jeer and cry in excitement. I turn the volume louder.

Tracker jacker stings...I wonder if I can do anything about that. No, but I only have six million in sponsor money. I don't know if I can afford to send anything else for a while. I will have to work on earning more sponsors. And soon.

But for now the best thing I can do is watch.

Katniss doubles back, and she can only be thinking about one thing: the bow and its perfect quiver of arrows. It's a good idea, but according to the way she staggers the venom is evidently already coursing through her.

She gets to the arrows, and none too soon. The Careers are already heading back as well, finding themselves still capable of thought even through the muddle their minds are surely turning into. All of them but Peeta. His eyes are clear and lucid, but they are filled with dread. Somehow, he overtakes the others, covering ground faster. He is running to Katniss.

Katniss isn't running. Why isn't she running? She has to leave. Peeta will almost be there. She has to leave!

She just remains there, shuddering numbly as her eyes roll. The venom. Finally, she turns her head, as if she can hear the Careers coming, and desperately her hands scrabble at the bow.

Yes, I think. She has a bow now; she can kill them. But her hands are boneless. They don't have the strength I know she would need to even draw the bow, much less fire an arrow.

Katniss is still frozen when Peeta bursts through the trees. My heart jumps nervously, pumping at a rapid staccato. He is dripping wet and his eyes widen as he sees Katniss. "What are you still doing here?" he hisses. "Are you mad?!"

He loses focus of everything but her. I am half regretful that a Capitol audience is seeing this. This is Peeta when he can only see one thing: Katniss.

"Get up! Get up!" he cries, and Katniss does, stumbling. "Run!" he screams. "RUN!"

Cato bursts through the bush, snarling like a rabid dog. His eyes take in the scene: Peeta just standing there, Katniss fleeing. And he turns on Peeta, fury written in every line of his face.

Peeta just stands there, wide-eyed as a doe. But he doesn't plead, nor does he act guiltily. Evidently, he has abandoned his cover. Quickly, he draws his knife.

His bravery shakes me to the core. What could a knife do against Cato's giant longsword?

"Well, Lover Boy," snarls Cato. "Looks like you're about to die."


	14. Even the Wind Lay Still

**A/N: I am officially a winner of NaNoWriMo now; aren't you all so proud of me? :D 50,832 words in a month (29 days, technically). Anyways, thanks so much for putting up with my absence last month, but at least now I know how to write more, or at least faster. I'm planning on trying to do weekly updates now, but I guess we'll see how that turns out.**

**I think Cato was a bit OOC in this, but I don't find him particularly interesting so I felt I had to add another, slightly crazy aspect into his character. And, um, this is a very intense sort of scene. Warning for gore.**

**As always, thanks to BBC Addict, YOUCALLTHATaKIS5, KatPee81, and Norbert's Mom for reviewing!**

When I was in the Games — and I almost never even dare to think about this — I never killed anyone who was not trying to kill me. I always let the innocent live whenever I could, even if they were to just die later or even if they were in extreme pain. I just could not bring myself to kill them if they had not done anything to me, even a mercy killing. The very thought of murdering someone innocent is nauseating.

That is exactly how I felt as I watched Peeta fight Cato. My stomach begins to tie itself into knots, and with every clash of steel or strike on flesh it just winds itself tighter. Despite the fact that I know that I could not possibly have done anything to prevent this if this is what Peeta wanted, there is a still a mantra in my mind that rings of guilt.

Peeta is silent as he parries the swift, devastatingly ruthless strikes. Any direct blow, even if he blocks it, will surely at least incapacitate him. He can not allow even one mistake against such a powerful opponent.

Watching the tiny, flat screen is not the same as being in the fight; I know that from my own times in the Games. But this time, as I worry at my bottom lip and clench my jaw so tightly my teeth grind together, I feel adrenaline rushing through me as if I were in Peeta's position. Sweat trickles lightly down the side of my face, my heartbeat pounding in my ears and I grip the corner of the bar so tightly my knuckles turn white.

Cato sneers as he strikes, his muscles shifting as he lunges, again and again with powerful strokes. Soon, he begins to realize that he is wasting energy, so switching to lazier swings, he taunts Peeta.

"So you were against us all along, huh?" He circles his sword tip, cornering the District 12 boy even as Peeta tries to maneuver into a clearer position. The broad blade winds back and forth like a sleepy snake.

I know that Peeta can use a knife, and well enough. That had been part of his plan, when he had first thought of it. Of course, at that time I had hoped that he would never have to fight a longsword with it, much less one held in Cato's hands, and that was even discluding the tracker jacker stings. The predicament he was in now was far beyond my worst fears.

I had trained him in knife fighting when he had asked me to, spending as many hours that either of us could spare to train. He was surprisingly good at handling the blade naturally, and with his muscle he could plunge it through flesh and bone without the trouble that usually came with a smallish weapon.

Wielding the weapon was also no problem, and the strength and quality of the blade he held was impressive.

But he lacked the speed. Knifing was all about footwork and speed, the lack of the latter troubling me greatly.

Peeta skitters around the leafy forest ground, near tripping several times on a series of raised tree roots. To be fair, right after Peeta stumbles over them, Cato does almost immediately after as well.

"Fine," says Peeta. "I was trying to trick you. So?"

The District 2 boy pauses for a moment in his smooth, periodic attacks, his sword tilted up in a defensive position. Then he shrugs. "Well then, you'll just have to die now. I would admire the fact that you admitted to your wrong, except for the fact that you tried to trick me, and that was a fatal mistake."

Without warning, the tip of the sword flashes forwards, like the bright tongue of the snake that had been, just moments before, resting. Its aim is ambitiously high, going for neck or shoulder, instead of trying to disable the forearm or hand, which is the usual target. Then again, Cato may just be taking advantage of his far longer range.

Luckily Peeta's reaction time is honed by the adrenaline that is probably streaming through his veins and sending nervous, but fiery hot bolts through his limbs. The knife flickers upwards, his muscles bulging as they let the blow glance off it, but Peeta arm still shakes under the full, jarring weight of the blow. Afterwards, when Cato rebounds backwards to survey the damage, Peeta shifts the knife to his other hand, awkwardly rubbing his right against his thigh, as if trying to push away the numb that was surely spreading up through his arm. I had been in enough similar situations to know what that feels like. It was an alien tension that was not painful, but distinctly uncomfortable and far too distracting.

"This will be over soon," Cato declares, and I can feel the others in the room chuckle slightly at the statement. They do not have faith in Peeta, and I realize that I am beginning to lose mine. An ache presses down on my chest, partially of guilt, but partially of a longing for what Peeta was fighting for. I had known that once, but that feeling was gone from me now; I was hollow and empty without it.

Cato's confidence, although absolutely justified, is not what ends up finishing the fight. Peeta puts up a spectacular fight, but slowly, everyone can catch all lingering traces of hope melting from his eyes. Well, perhaps not all of it. Reserved for those that only he can allow to see, there is hope. I can see it.

Even as I watch the flashing blades swing heavily in the rising sun, my eyelids struggle to keep themselves open. The adrenaline that has been forcing me awake earlier was gone, allowing me to think more rationally, but also allowing exhaustion to further cloud my senses. The screen begins to blur in front of my eyes, and there is a quiver in my arms that cannot be shaken away. How long had it been since I had last slept? Not the day before this one...nor the one before that...

I blink rapidly. Peeta, I think. Focus on Peeta.

The glint of a short blade glimmers, occasionally catching a flash of rising sunlight and flashing it over the camera lens. Peeta's movements are not quick, but neither have they slowed. Cato, on the other hand, wielding a heavy iron longsword was beginning to tire, but it was a false hope. The weight of the sword hardly even mattered; his movements were still precise and swift.

I can see Peeta counting the amount of time Katniss has had to run. A few minutes have already passed; she should be long gone. His movements begin to slow, as if the weight of the situation was finally pressing down on him now that his love was safe — for the time being. You were never safe in the Games.

The Games... Bright flowers and green meadows shine tantalizingly behind my eyelids as they droop for a moment. I am almost tempted to lose myself in such an apparently wonderful fantasy, if not for the fact that I knew what came almost right after that scene.

"Katniss is long gone by now," Peeta says, panting heavily.

Cato's chest is rising and falling noticeably as well, but he is not so obvious about it. "Ah, how sweet of you Lover Boy. I'll get her once I'm done with you." He cocked his head. "I think it's time to stop playing games."

Using a technique I showed him, Peeta dodges the first vicious strike and steps within Cato's longsword's range, catching the hilt — along with a couple of Cato's fingers — with his knife.

Cato roars in pain and fury, blood streaming down his wrist in little rivulets of thick, viscous liquid, and for a moment I think Peeta may have pull off the impossible. Improbable, I correct in my mind, hoping beyond hope. It seems like it worked. Cato's hand would now be irritated, even if it was only a flesh wound it would probably force him to switch to his left, which, although I was sure he knew how to use, would not be as powerful as his right.

Then Peeta let out a choked gasp of pain and all the hopes dropped away, all at once.

A sour combination of jeers, gasps and cheers rise around me from the other drunkards, and I clap my hands over my ears, as if that will prevent the sickening sound from reaching my ears. A need to retch throws my stomach into uneasy turmoil. It came not from the knife blade that Cato was currently tearing Peeta's leg apart with, but from the sound of the Capitolists all around me.

Blood coats both boys as it bursts from the wound, but the fount slowly lessens to an alarming flow. The flesh is not even visible underneath the coats of blood, but there is a horrible sound of rent flesh. Cato's face is twisted into a cruel sneer, and he drags the knife agonizingly slowly up from where it is buried in Peeta's thigh. The District 12 boy is screaming with abandon, face contorted. His eyes, when they opened, are clouded with mind-numbing pain. Wordless gurgles tumble out of his mouth like the blood rushing from his leg.

With a final, sadistic jerk, Cato pulls the knife out, allowing another burst of blood to coat his hands. Peeta is writhing on the forest floor, every ripple of movement causing his screams to rise a little higher in intensity every time.

Cato, along with the entire Capitol and most of the Districts, just stands there and watches him. Watches him squirm with the pain he dealt him. He listens to the screams eventually subside as Peeta remembers himself. It was probably not only the pain but the sheer denial of the injury that was causing him to go slightly crazy. We all watch and listen as Peeta eventually gets himself together, gritting his teeth so hard muscles in his jaw jump, and tries to push himself up.

He fails on the first try.

He fails on the second try. And the third.

And this entire time, everyone is just watching him struggle, even me, but there's this feeling that feels like it's wrenching my guts out, that wants me to go help him somehow, because this is not all just happening behind a glass screen — this is real.

The entire time I am wondering how Cato has not exploded yet. He has been standing there, entirely rational, entirely calm, with only the smallest of cruel smirks on his face. He has not killed Peeta; he has not even completed his rage at him. He has just been standing there, smirking.

When Peeta finally collapses to the ground for the tenth or twelfth time, the District 2 boys wanders up to him. "Happy now, Lover Boy? Your dear Katniss is having plenty of time to run now. How much are you willing to suffer for her?" His leg swings back and he kicks Peeta sharply, the harsh thud loud in the silence. The sounds of the forest had all ceased, animals fleeing at the scent of blood and even the wind lay still.

The crumpled body on the ground convulses another time, and bright blue eyes, tearing with pain, glare up towards the other's face. "Worth it," is all he manages to hiss.

The next kick is towards his face, and he takes it, spitting teeth and blood afterwards. Cato's face flickers from rage to unnatural calmness, face twitching. "You'd better hope so," he whispers back at him, leaning down towards his face to leer at it. He grips Peeta's face in his right hand, which is half smeared with Peeta's blood and half mixing with his own. "Because I'm far from done with you."

Even after he lifts his hand away, Peeta's face is covered in a red handprint. Disgusted, he tried to lift his hand to smear it away, but Cato lifts a sword tip to his throat first. Peeta freezes.

Lightly and with expert control the tip of the blade traces lightly down Peeta's jawline and down his chest. "Let's see..." murmured Cato softly. "Which part to start with?"

The Capitol audience was being held captive, and for once, I had to admit that I was as well. I did not understand how Cato's mind worked. One moment he was furious and incapable of thinking of anything before acting and another moment he appeared calm and rational but was completely insane.

"Cato!"

The voice bursts out of the trees before Clove appears, soaking wet. "You have to pull the stingers out," she says urgently, completely ignoring the boy on the ground and just focusing on his leader.

"What?" snaps Cato.

Another figure appears, more silently than the first. "You left too early," Marvel explains seriously. "The poison is probably already working its way through your system. We have to head back to the lake and get the stingers out."

"Hurry," begs Clove. "You'll start hallucinating soon."

Uncertainty edges Cato's eyes, and even though it was probably only for a split second it felt like several minutes to me before he said, "Let's go. He'll die anyways, and slowly."

The others nod. Before he leaves, Cato digs the sword point into the still open wound on Peeta's thigh. Then he runs back into the woods with the other two.

Peeta's eyes close again, but this time he is utterly silent. He quivers though, shaking like a leaf in the wind. The confrontation is over, but Peeta is damaged almost beyond repair. If he is not killed by the blood loss then he will be killed by something engineered by the Gamemakers, no doubt, or even a passing wild animal. And if all of those are not enough, the Careers will find him again soon enough.

I slump against the rough wood of the table, my eyes fluttering shut as well, my body shaking. I recite the list slowly to myself in my head. The list has dozens of names - forty six to be exact, no, now it was forty seven. Sliding 'Peeta' into it's place at the end of the line, I repeat it once more, just to commit it to memory. Others may have forgotten about all of them, but I will never forget.

Forcing my eyelids open again and again, I try to flip channels on the small screen, scout out possible enemy tactics, figure out how to get sponsors...

One moment I think I'm in the District 12 conference room with all its bright white lights, and another I feel like I'm in the green meadow. Where was I really? Neither. I was in neither. I was sitting in a bar, slouching, more like, the rough surface scraping against my fingertips.

But I cannot fall asleep, I tell myself. I cannot fall asleep. I cannot fall asleep. It turns into a sort of mantra.

Still, I cannot help it when comforting blackness swamps my thoughts, dragging them down, down, down and away from reality. Reality was just awful, wasn't it? Then again, my dreams were never much better, and that is the only thought that allows me to resurface just one more time.

Katniss would have to be added to the list soon, I muse. Right after Peeta. Peeta and Katniss. My eyes droop closed, and for once, the image that is burned behind my eyelids is not one of green meadows and bright flowers. Instead, I see Peeta's bright blue eyes, glazed with grief, not for himself, but for his love, the one would never want him.

I can't take it anymore. Instead of trying to stay awake, I just give in and let the darkness swallow me whole. The last thing I am aware of is a lithe, shadowy figure shaking my shoulder, but even that soon disappears.


	15. Continue Another Word

**A/N: So SORRY for the delay people! Life has been slow... :P Anyways I'll just let you read now and not bother you with a long author's note. Enjoy the chapter and don't forget to review!**

When I wake up it takes me several moments to remember the night before and any dreams I had that I could not even recall. The first sound I hear is of glass clinking and that is what brings my attention to the fact that I am lying down, and the floor is not of roughly hewn wood like most bars but rather a soft, plush carpet.

My fingers wind into the material, marvelling as its softness. The fibers were completely synthetic and softer than any type of natural moss or grass.

The fact that I wasn't at the bar meant that someone must have brought me to another room. As for who it was, I did not particularly care. In fact, for once I did not really care about anything at all.

Flopping over to my stomach I take a deep breath in, my nostrils hit with an almost familiar scent. I didn't recognize it immediately but it had a distinctly feminine scent to it.

There was a pleasant buzz in my mind, a haze that kept me from leaping to my feet alert and awake, ready for any danger with a knife by my side. It's not quite a hangover, but it's similar. My hand pawed my side. Knife... I blink sleepily a few times. It's not there, I think, jaw cracking in a huge yawn.

My ears begin to function again as the yawn pops the pressure on them that I hadn't even realized was there. Suddenly all of the teeth scraping and blood pounding doesn't sound so loud in my head anymore, and outwardly sounds begin to filter in. Soft clicking dominates the silence and I groan, the vibration coming more from my chest rather than my throat.  
The clicking stops.

I hear a chair swivel in a smooth, oiled motion, and it squeaks slightly a person emerges. I crane my head towards the sound, neck stretching to see who it is. Who is the lovely savior that picked me up from the bar?

I catch a glimmer of ink black hair before hearing, "I figured it was better to let you sleep here rather than catch pneumonia on the floor of the bar."

A glass of water is brought to my lips and practically spilled over my chest and mouth as it is half forced down my throat. "This is what happens when you drink that awful tonic," she comments dryly.

I glare at her, but nod. Working the liquid through my throat the coughing subsided, but my voice is still so raspy I can barely make out the words that I want to say. I didn't know her too well so I didn't know what to say. Why are you helping me? was the obvious question, but I already knew what her answer would probably be to that.

My arms are steady as I prop myself up, preparing to just walk away. Drinking had been a good break from the world; as had sleeping. But what was I supposed to do now? Ignore it? No. I couldn't. Not while there was still a list of names in my mind.

I glance around to find a clock somewhere, but there isn't one easily visible. I'm sure I can hear one ticking, and sweat trickles down the small of my back. "I'm...leaving..." I manage to rasp, after a good fifteen seconds of my throat working fruitlessly.

"No, you're not. I brought you here for a reason."

I look back. "What?" I ask slowly, softly.

"I think you're important," the voice explained. "More important than Hawkins thinks you are. He just sees you as another name on the list - he barely trusts you - but you know more than it seems."

What did I know that she wanted? I didn't see any sense in what she was saying, and it didn't help that I felt like there was a wad of gum in my throat.

"Two years ago," she begins, "on that train. You weren't sitting with the rest of us."

A hollow ache presses against my chest. I hadn't been, had I? Wracking my mind, I couldn't quite recall what I was doing; the only thing I remembered was the flames, but they were cold flames.

"You ran."

A hand — my hand — reaching towards a glowing red ember of metal flashes to the front of my mind even through my drunken haze. I shake my head, because I know that I did not run. I hack once more, and this time, a glob of phlegm is spat onto the plush, clean carpet. I get to my feet, meeting her eyes. "I have no idea what you mean, Angerona." I say, when I find that I can speak clearly again.

Her gray eyes are bright. "You don't know—"

There are four sharp raps at the door and both of ours eyes swivel towards the sound. My spine stiffens in apprehension when I see Angerona's wary look. I cannot decide if she looks like the predator or the prey.

"It might just be Hawkins," Angerona says, which hardly explains her tension. Why should she be so cautious of her own leader.

I stride up to the door and fling it open before she can protest, finding a set of slitted pupils meeting my eyes. Hawkin's eyes are mildly confused. "I was looking for Angerona," he says pointedly.

"I am here," the woman says softly, sweeping up to the door gracefully.

Hawkin's gaze goes from me to Angerona and back, his ears unnervingly following the path of his eyes as well. I am not nervous; there is no reason to be nervous. He is curious evidently, but he is not planning to pry. If he were he would have already, him being Hawkins. Hawkins was good at codes and such, but he could never be any less obvious about his intentions.

He shrugs, as if to brush the awkwardness off, and says, "Well I was about to invite this beautiful lady out to dinner, but if you would like to come with us..."

I looked at myself. Half drenched and still smelling like alcohol, I probably would not be recognized anywhere. I was not sure if that was exactly what Hawkins was looking for or not, but

I shrugged and agreed anyways. "I would," I say.

He nods. "I will go ask a few other friends if they would like to join us as well. Perhaps you could tidy up a bit?"

I nod back, slightly mockingly. "For sure, sir."

Hawkins did not seem impressed by the sarcasm, shutting the door with perhaps more force than was necessary. The moment the echo of the slam fades away I turn to Angerona. She stares mildly back at me. "Do you have an explanation for any of this?" I ask quietly, mirroring her calmness.

"As for Hawkins, he's left you out of more meetings than is polite, but it has been a prudent move of his," is her soft reply. She retreats to her bedroom, motioning for me to follow. Every one of her movements are deliberate, with not a single wasteful gesture or expression marring the grace of her presence. "He thinks that you are not going to be of much use; your tributes are both dying anyways, and you yourself are nothing but a wasted drunk. You have no passion for revenge, nor a mind sharp enough to conduct it."

I raise my eyebrows, plucking at my dripping wet shirt. It smelled like alcohol. "Awful perceptive of him," I say drolly.

Angerona opens her closet, shifting through the various articles of clothing while letting the silence drape over both of us like a thin veil separating us from the rest of the world. The only sound is the rustle of expensive fabric. "I don't think so," she says eventually, drawing a plain suit out from the dark, small room. "You are more bitter than any other I have seen so far. You have endured longer than most others, and you have been alone."

"Alone?" I scoff slightly. "I don't understand how you people survive with others, much less the Capitol's eye watching you all like hawks. District Twelve is a haven compared District Five, Ten, Eleven, all of them!" She passes me the suit and I accept it. It is heavy in my arms. "What is this made of? Iron?"

She ignores the question. "You are clever, Haymitch. It's how you won your Games. Hawkins is shrewd as well, but he is a strategian, not a spontaneous thinker."

I scowl. "The last thing I need is to get into more trouble."

She stares at me, and her eyes are blank. "That is the last thing I care about," she says bluntly.

"We aren't winning right now, Haymitch; you'll see that in today's meeting, and it's all because of Hawkins. The longer we plan something for, the easier it is for the Capitol to find out. That's why we must plan something immediately and act."

I make as if to interrupt her, but she presses her lips together and places a finger in front of them, demanding silence, and does not allow me to speak, so I back away and scowl. She continues, leaning in close enough so that I could hear her breath. Still, I could barely make out the next words that she says. "Be careful, Haymitch. I'm afraid there's a mole."

She points out the bathroom to me, and walks away without another word.

* * *

"And this is Johanna."

I nod. I recognize the District 7 victor, but find her presence untrustworthy. After all, she is like me — no one left — but she is young. Rash. It will not be long until she begins to realize the consequences of her actions. Her eyes are full of anger, in such a way that even when she leans back, supposedly relaxed in her chair, I can see the tension twisting inside her. No, she was not to be trusted.

She smirks, not looking up from a small gadget nestled in the palm of her hand. I raise my eyebrow. "Cocky, are you?"

Her wide set brown eyes, perfect for that innocent puppy dog look before she had cut her hair short and spiky, are scornful, and I know what they are seeing. What they are seeing is what I am on the surface: a drunk, a beaten dog, someone who has already lost the fight. Her words, light as they sound, are meant to be biting. They aren't, though. "Not really. At least I would have a reason to be, unlike someone who has lost."

Lost. She has lost so much as well. A seething anger rises in me but I bite it down. It's surprising, really, how much control I am able to execute when I want to. The trouble is though, most often

I don't want to, and the consumption of alcohol does not greatly help that control usually.

I nod. I can read right through you, I try to tell her, but I turn away my gaze away before I say the words.

"Nice to meet you too," I mutter.

She just smirks. "Yeah, you too," she replies, a hint of a sneer in her voice. She tips the drink in her hand up so that the amber liquid is sloshed down her throat in one throw. A pint of bitter.

"Glad you two are becoming such good friends," says Finnick drolly. He has a lopsided smile painted over his face, probably a result of the drink he was consuming. He got soft and pliant when he was drunk and I could practically smell the fumes coming off the shot glass clutched in his hands, even from across the table. Truthfully, even I considered meeting in a bar to be a bad idea, but I was hardly going to complain.

Not like they were letting me touch any type of hard liquor after last night. Angerona was insisting that I "sober up" with a glass of water, and I was resenting that fact currently.

Beetee jostles his glasses, shooting a slightly nervous look at Hawkins. "Well, I suppose if that's all the introductions, then we can start?"

I roll my eyes slightly, kicking my booted feet up onto the table. About time. Introductions were slow, exhausting things. They required too much thinking; doing this idiot planning wasn't quite as requiring of mental exertion. "Last time I talked to someone knowledgeable," I begin to say, then I stop and look around sarcastically. "Hm. I can't recall the last time that happened. I suggest you impress me."

Mixed reactions greet the words. Beetee quivers, like a rabbit ready to bolt at anytime. Finnick is still locked away in Finnick-land, or rather, ocean, and Angerona is laughing a little. Hawkins is just nodding slowly, and Johanna is the one to reply. "Well good thing you've just met me," she says with a wink to Finnick, who wakes startlingly quickly, "because I've got a surprise for you."

I raise an eyebrow. Johanna was too easy to read.

She reaches in her pocket to pull out what obviously is one of those Capitol issue mini televisions, so I give her the same smirk that she had been giving me and mutter under my breath, "First mistake."

She hears it and freezes, a thread of fear entering her expression. She was too easily broken. "What is it?" she drawls slowly, sweetly.

"Capitol issue, darling, remember?" I tsk softly through my teeth. "Not a good idea."

Her eyes are still uncomprehending and I am beginning to get impatient. I fold my arms and thump a boot against the table, which rattles everyone's glasses. Finnick moans in protest. "Too easily recognizable!" I say, just a tad too loudly. But it's causes no harm; after all, we are in a bar, where more nonsense is spewed at any time of day than anywhere else. I tone down my voice. "Look at the seal; look at the value. That thing, if you hadn't got it for being a mentor couldn't cost less than what, 7K?"

"You're overpricing it," she muttered, but from the downcast look in her eyes were proof enough of her uncertainty.

I nod, the victory so easy that not even triumph is bubbling inside me. "Thank you."

She looks at me queerly. "Why?"

"For admitting that you were in the wrong," I retort.

She snarls back at me.

"Break it up, break it up," drawls Finnick, who seems to have returned from wherever his mind had been. "Beetee, just hurry up and explain it to him."

"And not in code, preferably," I mutter.

"I thought you wanted a display of intelligence, ," says Beetee, with a nervous chuckle. His eyes flicked back and forth to catch any type of reaction but there was none.

"That wasn't funny," I tell him, "but go on."

"Well it's fairly new," he mutters softly, so quietly that I can hardly hear him, "and it's not solid, but it is a plan that we can stick to."

I swirl the ice cubes in the glass of water that I'm clutching. "That's reassuring," I tell him, while watching moisture bead on the outside of the glass, pearling like drops of sweat.

"Really?" His eyebrows are furrowed so deeply he could hold a card there.

"No. But there's not much I can do about it. Continue."

He twiddles his thumbs and hunches his shoulders, as if he can feeling the gazes of the others like a physical pressure. "The tributes," he murmurs, beginning hesitantly, but as he speaks, he is emboldened by the silence of the others. "They are the connection between the Districts and the majority of the Capitol audience, as well as the easiest thing for us to manipulate considering our ability to give or withhold parachutes."

"I see. What is this about a Capitol audience?"

His speaking is firmer now. "You see, with so few allies on our sides there's pretty much only one thing us victors can do." He leans in close to say these words, and even the others, the ones who had surely heard the words before, listen intently as well. "Start a rebellion."

I nod. "It's true," I say pensively. "Our numbers are too few." The words begin pouring out of my mouth as I understand more and more of what he is trying to say. "You believe the Districts have the population advantage in if there were to be a rebellion. You could anger or persuade the District to fight instead of just watch for once, which would require an almost impossibly fine balance of courage and tragedy, but of course it is possible. For sure, the Capitol has the weaponry, but if you could turn, perhaps District 2, over to your side, there would be a marginal success rate." I sweep my feet of the table, knocking over my glass of water. It crashes to the ground loudly, but does not break. Water runs all over the floor, seeping in the little cracks between the boards. "What a stupid plan."

The sudden silence at the tables makes the noise of the bar almost deafening.

"Thank you," barks Hawkins suddenly, who had begun to laugh. The peals of laughter almost sound like growls. "Thank you," he repeats softly, a grin quirking at the corner of his mouth. It peels his lips off his canine teeth, making them gleam in the light. His hand is clutching his glass - filled with some dark, blood red liquid - so tightly his fingertips are turning white.

The rest of the table wakes up moments after, either chuckling with Hawkins, angry, or something else entirely. "What should we do then?" asks Angerona, who is more serious than any other. There is a gleam in her flinty eyes.

"Hm." I sweep my gaze around the table. "I have no answer for that." In the back of my mind I see Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee in his sparkly cloaks and with his wide, false smiles. I did have an answer. I just did not want to reveal it.

"You do," insists Angerona, whose gray eyes look too much like Seam eyes. There is a venomous undertone to her voice, as if within her there were snakes that hissed.

I cross my arms in front of my chest and state blandly, "Of course I don't."

Her gaze is livid. "Liar," she hisses.

"Angerona," says Hawkins warningly. He isn't laughing anymore.

"You don't command me!" she snarls icily, and for once I can see beyond the fragile surface that she calls a mask. No longer is she the cool, confident, unconquerable victor, now she is the desperate, broken woman that the Capitol left crushed in its footsteps. Her eyes burn with one thing: revenge. In that moment, I could see right through her slate gray eyes, all the way to her cold core. This woman is so cold; she is cold as Hell itself.

She doesn't rant, or even waste the breath to continue another word. Instead, she sweeps up, ink black hair casting dark shadows on a dark green coat that made her eyes fleck with spots of hazel, and strides her way out the door before another word is said.

"What a lovely woman," I drawl.


	16. Because You Are Weak

**A/N: Update! So sorry for disappearing; I hope this doesn't become a habit, but I was busy. Yeah, that's not a good excuse is it? Anyways, I had to break this chapter into two bits because it ended up being really long, so here's the first half. :) Enjoy and don't forget to review!**

"So this is District 12," says Finnick amiably, craning his neck to look towards the window. "I've never been up this far north before." His breath forms a sheen of mist on the glass. "It's cold."

I shrug. "It's not too far north actually," I inform him. "Only a little farther than the upper reaches of District 4."

I am heading back to District 12 to talk to Katniss's and Peeta's relatives. Very soon the Games would be down to the final eight, and along with the congratulations came the Interviews. Oh, the family interviews. They would be crucial, for both Katniss and Peeta. If they even make it through the day, that awful voice in my mind informs me. Over the years I've learned to trust that little intuition of mine, so I don't deny the thought. Still, it would do no harm to go see their family, even if to reassure them. Although I'm not sure how reassuring my presence would be. At best, it'd be disturbing.

Finnick was there to do what he always did: be Finnick. He had wanted to come just because, as he had said, he had nothing better to do after he had lost (his eyes had looked so bitter at the words) and he had never been to District 12 anyways.

"You're in for a treat," I had told him sarcastically, so here he was.

Finnick begins swiping at the mist on the glass, drawing a little picture as a child would. F + A, encircled by a heart. I wondered who "A" was, whether it was someone I knew, or whether they knew that a victor was thinking of them. The moisture melts away, leaving no evidence of his handiwork and he just looks at it sadly, tracing the outline of the "F" again, but it doesn't leave any mark.

"I don't usually go up north," he replies "I was a fishermen and they mostly stay near the coast. I knew someone from there though, and she would always talk about the most amazing things: fields, trees and such that we didn't have at the bay. All the vegetation was underwater where I used to live."

The way he uses past tense for every word he says gives a sour taste to the wine that trickles down my throat. At least I still knew and cared about District 12 instead of the Capitol. Finnick acted like it was a thing lost to the past, and I couldn't help but wonder hopelessly if this was the attitude that would stir a rebellion.

An Avox walks in and nods at us, which usually means something along the lines of either there would be a meal, which was unlikely on a two hour ride, or that we were close to arriving. I never paid too much attention to Avoxes, for fear of that eventually I would recognize one.

Five minutes later, the train rumbles to a stop, and I can see the Justice building in sight as well as the mayor waiting to greet us. I drop my glass of wine down in the table with a clatter. "Come on," I say to Finnick, "Time for your first glimpse of District 12."

The Avox leads us to the exit of the train, but only stands by the edge of the train, gesturing for us to step off. It was like he - oh, wait, she - could not even step slightly outside of her boundaries, but she walked as close to them as she possibly could, almost falling off the train.

"Haymitch," the mayor greets smoothly, then, stuttering as he sees Finnick, "Oh - er, and Mr. Odair!"

"Hello Mayor Undersee," says Finnick, "Haymitch kindly offered to let me come with him to tour District 12. I hear you have lovely coal mines."

I smother a laugh at the mayor's horrified expression. "No — um, no one informed me of this. Is this some type of—"

"Inspection?" Finnick raises an eyebrow and lets the silence drag long enough for the mayor's face to turn begin to twitch before laughing and continuing. "No no no, of course not. I don't work in the government. I'm here just for a friendly visit with Haymitch, eh?" He smiles disarmingly.

The mayor lets out an almost comical breath and I snort. He looks at me oddly, probably because I've never brought back any "friends" before. Honestly, the mayor isn't too fond of me. Having a drunk for a victor is not good for business or treatment from the Capitol. I just didn't care about that though.

"Well, welcome to District Twelve," the mayor says a tad shakily. "Haymitch, I assume you're hear to speak with Ms. Everdeen and Mr. Mellark's relatives."

I smirk. "Indeed I am."

He seems surprised by my sobriety. "I'd presume they're going about their day, as usual. You can speak with my daughter; she should know where they are."

"That's probably a good idea," I muse. "The train will be back in," I check my watch, "five hours, so it would be good to get as much time with them as possible."

He nods. "Of course." Then, turning, he calls, "Madge!"

She appears around a corner, light as a bird. "Yes Daddy? Is Mother sick again?" Her surprised gaze turns to Finnick and I. "Victor Abernathy! And excuse me, but... do you happen to be Finnick Odair?"

"What?" says Finnick, and I recognize the expression on his face. It's the exact one from the cafe a few days ago, when the waitress had asked him a similar question. The tone of his voice is blandly saying, "Are you crazy? I'm not Finnick Odair." Bad timing to be acting from that instinct, because of course, he wasn't in a disguise right now.

The degrading tone of his voice is so awkward that the girl stiffens. "Excuse me," she says a little breathlessly, looking him up and down. "I'm sorry, but that was rather rude of you to —"

Finnick blinks, catching his mistake. "Just teasing, my dear," he says in the tone of voice he uses when he wants to watch women melt into puddles in front of him. He winks. "Of course I'm Finnick Odair; who else would have this gorgeous body?"

Madge blushes slightly, because evidently no woman or girl can stand in front of Finnick and not. "Oh," she begins shyly, and can't seem to find the words to continue for a moment. "Nice to meet you, ."

"Just Finnick, please." He grins.

She smiles. "Finnick then." The way she echoes what he said reminds me of a mockingjay, somehow. "So Daddy, what did you want?" she lilts, finally answering her father's call.

If possible, Mayor Undersee has gone from slightly flustered and embarrassed to murderous. But it's not like he can do anything; we both are victors, and quite well known ones at that. "Nothing, Madge."

"Nothing?" she repeats, in a more slightly disappointed tone.

Now I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you said the girl could accompany Finnick and I to find Katniss and Peeta's relatives."

"Ah, er..." is the mayor's reply.

"I'd be delighted, Haymitch," says Madge pleasantly. "It's alright Daddy; I'll be able to direct these gentlemen where they want and I was planning to go to the bakery today anyways."

"Very well then. Be careful Madge," he says with a nod, before turning to walk away.

Finnick snickers softly as we watch him shut the door to his largish home more firmly than needed. "The poor man."

I nod and chuckle with him. "You really didn't have to act quite so...Finnicky," I tell him,.

"Oh, it's not like Daddy minds," pipes up Madge. "Anyways, Haymitch, Finnick," she says, looking at us in turn. "I think we ought to go to the bakery first. After all," and she shoots a look at Finnick, "the best time to talk with Katniss's mom and sister is in the afternoon, and one of Katniss's friends is coming by then as well."

For a moment I was slightly confused, until I realized that she was not only including Katniss's only living relatives, but also considering the factor of the girl on fire's illegal hunting partner and best friend Gale. Clever girl. Yes, I would have to talk to Gale too, I supposed.

I glance at Finnick. Well I would probably have to ditch him somewhere before going to see Gale. It would do no good for Finnick to report the hunter, even though it was possible that the District 4 victor would refrain from that, I couldn't take any chances. At the very least, it would be very impolite to bring a Capitol person to meet an illegal hunter. Then I flinch, realizing what I've categorized Finnick as. It almost makes me regret my decision for leaving him out. Almost.

The sky is a soft, uniform shade of light gray, with clouds so thick that you can't even see that bright spot where the sun shines behind the gray. The day is dark, so that even in the noon sun the world around me feels like it is fading. I scuff the ground with my boots, watching small clouds of blackish coal dust rise from the ground in dark curls. They wisp away as well, only lasting for a moment before dispersing again.

Madge is talking sweetly to Finnick. "Yeah, even though District 12 seems really dreary it can actually brighten up quite a bit on a nice day. And in the summer, we get these wonderful wild strawberries."

"Strawberries?" says Finnick. "District 4 didn't have any of those, although I've tried some in the Capitol."

Madge smiles a little and says, "Well you haven't tried real strawberries until you've eaten them wild."

"Oh?" Finnick raises an eyebrow. "Where do you get those?"

The girl startled slightly. "Oh, er — not from too far away. Um, there's this little place called the Meadow and you can find them there."

Lie. I can hear it in her voice, and besides, even drunk as I usually am, I've been to the Meadow and there were definitely no strawberry patches. In fact, I had seen strawberries, but only once before, and they were clutched in a hunter's — that boy, Hawthorn — hand. There was no reason to call the girl out on it though, so I just continue walking silently.

"That's nice," purrs Finnick. He lifts his nose. "I smell bread," he announces. "Are we almost there?"

The enticing aroma of baking goods is indeed wafting from the building up ahead. "Yes," replies Madge. "That's the baker's house. The baker himself is quite nice, but," and she leans in closer to Finnick to say, "watch out for his wife."

Finnick leans back conspiritally. "Oh, you honestly cannot believe there's a woman who isn't affected by my charm."

"We'll see about that," says Madge darkly, but her eyes twinkle lightly in contrast. "Come on then."

I push past the two of them to knock on the sturdy wooden frame of the baker's front door. The door is almost trembling with murmured voices that sound in the house but as the sound of my rapping echoes they all silence almost immediately. Evidently, they had been fighting. "Excuse me!" I call gruffly.

Finnick and Madge seem to have felt the tension as well, and they quiet. Both of them are looking at me expectantly. Finnick looks merely confused, but Madge's eyes are quiet.

The door opens firmly and out peers the face of one of Peeta's older brothers. I don't quite remember which, but I'm fairly sure it's the oldest one, from Peeta's descriptions. His blue eyes are the same color as Peeta's. "Um..." he stutters. "Haymitch - er, Mr. Abernathy!"

"Just call me Haymitch," I answer irritably. "I need to talk to you."

Startled, he looks around, perhaps looking for his father, whose voice I can hear somewhere behind the man. "Me?" A hesitant finger is raised.

"Yes you," I snap, already impatient. This boy does not give me the reassurance Peeta does and I am already disappointed. "And the rest of you." I point behind him. "I assume your family is all here?"

"Ah — um, yeah they're all here. Come on in then."

* * *

"How is Peeta? Is he okay?" the baker asks solemnly.

I raise an eyebrow. "You've seen him. Do you think he's okay?"

The baker's mouth twists. "I haven't seen it for days," he growls, deep in his throat. "My wife is hysterical. She won't let me watch it."

"By it you mean the Games?" I state bluntly. "Evidently you are not reassured enough in yourself if you won't even state it by name."

He does not reply, instead turning to the oven behind him. With more force than necessary, a rack is shoved over the flames, rattling. The blaze of heat from the fire even manages to reach my face, the heat adding to the crackling tension in the room.

In the silence, I can hear the voices of Finnick and the baker's wife from the living room. I had thought it was a better idea to leave the charmer to talk to the lady. Or the witch, as some called her. Peeta had always insisted otherwise though.

"Peeta's not doing very well," I admit. "He's dying."

The burly man's back stiffens, but he does not turn around. "What do you want then?" he asks softly, rubbing a scarred hand. "If he's dying, then what can we do to help?"

I snort. "I'm not here to give you a pep talk. I just need you to play a bit of the Capitol's game."

He moves over to the window and leans against, gazing at the gray sky outside. It is dark with smog and coal smoke. "I don't see how I could."

I am growing impatient with the man and his constant inability to do anything. How could he have raised a son like Peeta? No wonder he had not gotten the woman that he loved, and she had ended up in the arms of another man.

"Turn around," I snap angrily. "Use some of your son's courage and face me." When there is still no movement I stride angrily over to the larger man. Even though through the years of being an alcoholic I have weakened, my strength is still enough to yank the other man around by the shoulder forcefully. He stumbles, blue eyes snapping up to meet mine. "Your son is dying," I repeat. "And he is showing no fear. Can't you do the same?"

"No." The baker's eyes are blazing suddenly. "How could you wretched man, a drunk, a victor, a possession of the Capitol, understand what it means to lose him! You have no children, and you never will! How could you know the pain of loss when you've never had anything to lose? You say all these things as if you have no feeling, and sometimes I wonder how you survive." His voice had started out powerful and full of wrath, but by the end it had dwindled down to an accusing whisper.

I have lost before, I want to tell him. I have lost so much that you could not possibly understand. Everything has already been taken from me, and now I am owned by no one, much less the Capitol. You could not have coped, I want to snap. Only I could have, and I did. I survived, and you won't. But all I say is, "Fine."

"I pity you," he rumbles.

No, I pity you, because you are weak. The mantra repeats mind-numbingly in my head, until it begins to take on the baker's voice and I shudder.

* * *

A high pitched screech rises above all the other noises in the house and the boy, Peeta's older brother, startles. "Sorry," he says, wincing, "That must be my mother."

I nod a few times. "Yes, well you already know all that you need to say to the interviewers when they come, am I right?"

He nods affirmingly. "No worries Haymitch. You'll take care of Peeta, won't you?"

I hesitate to answer that sentence, wanting to agree, but not sure that I can. Luckily enough, I am saved by Finnick dashing into the room. "Let's go," he says quickly, jerking his head towards the door.

The boy and I exchange and look and he merely says, "That's my mother for you. You should probably leave."

I chuckle. I had liked the boy; he reminded me of Peeta in his optimism and light wit. "Thank you," I manage to say before following Finnick out the front door.

The air is refreshingly cold when we walk outside. Madge, who had gone off to purchase some goods from elsewhere, is waiting for us. "How was it?" she asks pleasantly, even as Finnick strides right past her.

"I'll tell you later," he says, not slowing down. Madge falls in line besides him. "For now, let's just get as far away from there as we can!"

The girl giggles. "You're going in the wrong direction," she says, shoving his shoulder to turn him back towards the direction of the Seam. "It's that way."

I, who had already started in that direction, wave for the two of them to follow. I'm fairly sure that Finnick isn't acting. He genuinely likes being in the presence of this sixteen year old girl with the elegant blond hair and light personality. Perhaps he just wants a friend for once, with no heavy burden attached. No life debts, no pressure. Just a friendly exchange.

But what I can see that Finnick can't is the cunning that lies just beneath the pretty dress and the smile. This girl is no stranger to the sufferings of the world, and not only that, but she knows how to deal with them. She exchanges a quick glance with me, and we plan silently.

"It's nice to know that there are females that are impervious to your charm," Madge teases to Finnick. "Your television interviews didn't usually end with a woman screaming her head off at you."

"That witch?" he exclaims. "I'm not even sure if that counts," he protests.

"It does," she says, slightlly distractedly squinting at the sun overhead. "I don't know if will be home at this time. Prim should be, though."

"Oh, that's alright," I chip in. "We should still go."

It takes awhile to make our way from the richer part of District 12 down into the slums. As we walk, you can visibly see the change. What had originally been trodden, yet clean, dirt roads have now turned into beaten down paths with overbearing rows of weeds and overgrown tree roots that one could easily trip over. And the clean, neat rows of houses that had stood all tidily next to one another morphed into shacks of straw or mud roofs.

Most disturbingly, however, were the people. Nearing the Seam, the population began to suffer. Beggars began coming up us from the sides of the street — they should have known better than to beg from victors. I saw more than one starving child lying on the edge of the road. Madge walked past them steely eyed, but Finnick gave them more than one worried glance.

Madge eventually stops at a supposedly random looking house, the door slightly ajar. I had actually not been to the Seam for quite a while. If I went anywhere in District 12, it was usually to the Hob. Anywhere else held too many strange memories, whether joyful or melancholic.

I wait for Madge to knock on the door, call out a name, anything, but she isn't doing anything besides watching me, and waiting. She's not going to do it for me. So, taking a breath, I walk up to the wooden door and rap on it sharply.

"Gale?" says a thin, soft voice from inside. It's almost musical as it lifts hopefully, accompanied by the patter of light footsteps, and delicate as raindrops. "You're awfully early today."

A small hand with skinny little fingers wraps around the edge of the panel, followed by a pale face framed with corn yellow braids. Wide, glassy blue eyes just make Primrose Everdeen look even more like a doll. Her lips are rounded in a soft "o" of surprise.

I raise a hand, gesturing a hello.

The door is shut in my face. It doesn't even slam, but the distinct click of a lock is clearly audible. "Prim!" shouts Madge.

A thump sounds as something was evidently thrown at the door. Finnick gives me a startled look. "She's upset about something?" he asks.

I gaze at the door. Madge had stepped in front of me and is now banging against it, yelling, "Primrose Everdeen, come out here right now!" to no avail. There is never any reply, just the constant slam of more objects being stacked against the wooden barrier.

Shaking my head, I reply to Finnick. "That's not what an upset Everdeen looks like. Believe me, if you had met Katniss you would know." The silence on the other end is almost unnerving. It was true; Primrose Everdeen was not upset. She was angry. Such a sweet little girl.

Madge turns back to us. "She's not coming out," she points out, a tad redundantly.

Finnick shrugs. "I figured that out a while ago. What now?"

I check my watch. "Well we can't waste anymore time. Finnick, stay here and wait for her to...let you in. Madge and I are going to go look for ." No, we actually weren't. I was going to get Madge to take me to see the hunting partner. I just hope the girl understands what I was saying.

A slow nod from her suggests that she does. "Yes, perhaps that would be best. If Prim does happen to let you in... Just talk to her until we get back. She needs a few words from an unfamiliar face."

Finnick's eyes are a darker green than usual. "I will." His gazes wanders back towards the barred wooden barrier and there is something sorrowful in his irises, which are the color of dark seawater, almost black.

I turn around to say a word to Madge, but I find that she has already past me. She doesn't look back, an urgency hidden in her movements. I glance back at Finnick, but he hasn't noticed it in his thoughtfulness. The way she moves isn't stiff, like one is when they're angry, nor is it slow, like someone who is sad. It's wistful.

Wistful for what, I wonder. Perhaps I will find out.


	17. Becoming Like I Am Now

**A/N: Here's the second half. My apologies if Gale seems a bit OOC. But I have my reasons for it...sort of... I think he's a hard character to portray correctly, but that could be said for all the characters. If he seems angsty well...he's an angsty guy.**

**Writing this chapter made me realize how much I want to elaborate more on Prim and in particular (named Lynn in my story), especially in her connection to Maysilee. It took me ages to figure out a name I liked for her, but I figured she ought to have a first name, and a maiden name, because that's how Haymitch knew her. It will sound very strange; it still sounds strange to me. Somehow I don't find it weird that Haymitch calls Katniss's father Everdeen though...**

**I've been very busy these days as well, so writing is going slowly. Just warning whoever's reading this story. I totally understand if you're not willing to wait so long between chapters. :P I'd love to write more, but I'm thinking of starting something else too; I've been stuck on Haymitch for so long I think I need a bit of a refresher. Especially since I just hit 50,000 words last chapter (yay for me and kudos to everyone who's been keeping up with this) this seems to be a good landmark to stop for a while maybe. I PROMISE I will finish it. It just may not finish as quickly. **

**Past the unusually long author's note, don't forget to leave a review! I do love reviews.**

"He'll be coming," she says, yet again.

"Yes, girl," I drawl. "Now, since we're waiting, do you have any liquor in this house of yours?"

Madge shakes her head. "I told you already, my father locks the drinks cupboard. It's not like I have access to liquor easily."

I eye the high cabinet, behind the glass locked several tall bottles of expensive wine. I was beginning to feel a headache creep up on the back of my head. Alcohol withdrawal probably, combined with the rising sound of wind and rain outdoors. I hadn't drank anything so far today, and I had been hoping to stock up on more of Ripper's white liquor — the burn of which I sorely missed — but I hadn't had a chance so far, and I probably wouldn't so I figured the best place to get alcohol was probably one of the richest residence in town.

Picking up a chair I begin to raise it in preparation to smash the glass when Madge snaps, "Stop that! You are not stealing my daddy's whiskey!"

I don't put the piece of furniture down. "What about your daddy? It's not like he dares harm you, his precious little darling, so what do you care if he's mad at me?" My grip tightens on the legs of the chair, preparing to drive it through the glass.

"Fine!" cries Madge. "Fine; I'll give you the key."

I give her a twisted grin. "Little devil," I say, "I knew you'd have it."

She sniffs. "I stole it a while from Daddy's desk drawer a while ago. He must think I'm brainless if he believes I couldn't find out where it was." There's a distinct clinking in the pocket of her dress before she draws out a ring of keys. Picking one out carefully, she hands it to me.

I'm forced to put the chair down so that I can open the cupboard. As I fit the key to the keyhole I watch Madge and her ring of keys. "What are all of those for, anyway?" I drawl, helping myself to an expensive looking bottle. I pop the cork and drink directly from the lip of the bottle.

She flips the keys, lingering particularly on one old, copper key that's green with rust. "They're just for safekeeping, most of them. Some, like that one, are just so that I know what I'm doing."

I toss the flat piece of metal back at her. "Well have this one back then."

She catches it, and, without looking, tosses it into the trash bin behind her. It clatters into the can. "It's not much use anymore; evidently the cupboard's already been opened." Suddenly, her head lifts. "Oh, Gale's here."

I raise an eyebrow. "I heard nothing."

Smirking slightly, she shrugs. "Oh you did. You just didn't know what it was."

I roll my eyes, following her as she moves across the kitchen, heading for the back door. "Let me guess. Series of knocking? Shadow signals? Bird calls?"

"Not any bird calls. Mockingjay calling." She puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles shrilly.

"That's not what a mockingjay sounds like," I point out dryly. "If anything, you sound like a tea kettle."

She doesn't reply. Instead, what I hear is a deep, husky voice calling softly, "Madge?"

From within the shadows a figure pads out, two steely grey eyes narrowed. "And Haymitch?" he murmurs as he steps into the light. Gale Hawthorn is a hunter through and through; it's written in every silent, deliberate step he takes and in the scent of wood and rain that clings to him from the outdoors. It reminds me distinctly of someone but I can't quite put my finger on it.

I nod. "Hello."

His eyes are angry, the grey in them darkening. "Madge, were you aware that there was a man in your house?" The deep husky voice at which Madge completely froze at is quietly controlled.

"Yes," she replies quietly.

It's as if the entire room has suddenly sobered up, even me, clutching a bottle of wine. Hawthorn's piercing grey eyes are much heavier than Katniss's; when Katniss was angry she looked dangerous, but this hunter, he just looked dark.

He snorts. "Alright then. Here are your strawberries, you can pay me later; I have to leave." A small burlap sack is offered and Madge accepts it without another word.

"Are you angry at me, boy?" I say. My words are still clear, despite the alcohol thrumming through my system. If anything, all it seems to be doing is making me irritable.

"Angry?" The sound of Gale's voice echoes ominously in the silence, making me notice how tall he was. Of course, I had already assessed his fighting ability since the moment I had realized he was there; an enormous amount of potential and danger was stored in that lean hunter's body of his, but there was even more so in his mind. "Why would I be angry?"

"Oh, no reason I suppose," I say airily. "It's just that you seem rather upset."

Gale grits his teeth, tension running across his shoulders. "Because of course," he says, "I have nothing to be upset about. There's only one little thing ruining my life, and that being the fact that you're standing here, drinking, talking to the mayor's perfect, preppy daughter, while Katniss lies dying in the arena! How could you let this happen when Katniss is obviously so capable of doing what no one else can do: survive that place! I've learned not to impose my problems on other people."

He's wired like a bomb ready to explode. Even so, through his little speech I have to refrain on correcting his words. His anger is making him blind, I think. "That's an interesting opinion," I drawl.

A twitch, almost like a shudder ripples down his back. Under all the hunting leather and lean muscle, I can see the disrest in the boy; that was all he was, really, no matter how much he looked like a man. He was just a boy. "Why are you here anyway?" he asks through gritted teeth.

I shrug. "I'm here to tell you how to continue living your life."

"Life?" He scoffs. "This is no life; every day I spend living in fear, waiting for the Capitol to finally turn on us and burn District 12 to the ground."

"So what are you still doing here?" I take a swig from my bottle. I'd heard almost nothing about Gale from Katniss - she had been reluctant to unveil facts about her personal life - but I had to admit that he was turning out to be different than I had imagined. He reminded me of someone, surely, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "You're a hunter; you don't need District 12 to support you."

There was a long period of silence. "I suppose so," he said slowly, dark eyebrows furrowing and head dropping slightly.

"Well you can't do that anymore, so it's too bad for you."

The dark head of hair raises slowly. "Why not?"

"Katniss," I say simply. "She's the problem."

He opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. "What you know – and what you don't know that I know – about our dear little sweetheart is that she's not going to die." She's really not, I tell myself. "So what you should do is to get your sorry ass out of that forest and out of your comfortable life and go do something useful." I pause to let the words sink in. "Also known as doing exactly what I tell you to."

He is silent; almost too silent, his eyes staring out the window thoughtfully. I am beginning to feel a thread of something like triumph – because I'm sadistic like that and I like to watch people fold – but then his wandering gaze locks on mine and there's a glint in the dark irises that I don't like. "What do you know about my life?" he growls.

"I'm fairly tired of hearing 'what do you know about me' questions by now. I mean, honestly, it's like I'm playing trivia sometimes." I toss my finished bottle of wine onto the carpeted floor. Wine was no good at keeping the pain at bay; it was too weak to really knock me out.

Gale picks up the bottle with disgust. "'Comfortable life' you say?" He turns the bottle around to read the label. Evidently, the words did not mean much to him; he wouldn't know much about expensive wine, having mostly likely never drunk any wine at all. "Since you apparently know so much, what about my life is comfortable?" There is a rigid anger in his shoulders.

"Hm. Well you're not dead," I point out. "I'm not sure if death is comfortable or not."

"I'm not dead?" he repeats. "I'm not dead?! Well you're not dead either. No, instead you're playing the Capitol's trained dog and wasting yourself on this."

In a violent, sudden movement, he smashes the bottle against the countertop next to him. The bottle shatters into large shards, and Madge, who had been leaning near that countertop, eyes wide and confused, shrieks with alarm. It reminds me of when Katniss pushed Peeta into the urn that day after the interviews. In this case I wonder who's Katniss and who's Peeta.

"Thanks for that display," I say softly. "Now who did you help?"

"No one," he snaps. "I don't need to help anyone."

I nod. "Yes, and that's why you spend the better part of your days hunting in the woods for your family, and that's why you're also supporting Katniss's sister and mother, and that's exactly why you've come here and given a sweet girl some strawberries without asking for payment."

"Without asking for payment yet," he says pointedly, his grip tightening on the neck of the smashed wine bottle.

Madge says quietly, "I could go get some coins right now…"

I wave a hand at her. "No, girl, stay. I'm going to be leaving soon and I need to talk to you as well. As for you, Gale, you'd better be wise about what you say who Katniss is; you're too close to her. Too close for Peeta's liking," I tell him, just as pointedly. "If you don't listen to anything else I say, listen to that. Cousins usually works."

I turn to leave because I'm already bored, but Gale has left before me, his footsteps are already retreating out into the rain, though I'm sure he heard my last piece of advice. Even so, before I find my way back to the Everdeen's house I pick up a shard of glass – from the shattered wine bottle – to remind myself of the anger inside of Gale Hawthorn. His anger is cold, but his eyes burn with passion. I should remember what gray Seam eyes look like.

I'm confronted with a pair of angry, bright blue eyes. "Go away." The stubborn voice comes through the small crack in the door. I know that if I want to, I can just push the door — and Primrose Everdeen along with it — open. But I don't.

"Yes, yes," I say, "I'm a terrible person because I'm not helping your sister right now. I'm a terrible person because I don't understand what you're going through, losing a loved one. I've heard that from a lot of people today already but all I want is a shelter from the rain and some time to talk."

"She's not going to let you in," murmurs Finnick, bronze hair plastered to his head from standing in the weather. "I've been trying nonstop for hours, and I think she's just stubbornly upset. She's just a kid; leave her alone."

I ignore Finnick. I had faith enough in my own skill. "I know how to help Katniss, and if you open up, I can tell you!"

"I don't want to talk to you." The voice is soft but assertive.

"Listen to me," I snap, "You can help Katniss most of all, if only you help me."

The door is shut firmly all the way and her voice is muffled. "What about me? What if I don't want to?"

That stops me in my tracks. "What?"

The sound of soft scratching and very, very light whimpering pulls at my chest. "Go. Away."

"Finnick, help me out here," I murmur to him. "Okay Primrose, stand back for a moment. I'm going to knock the door over if you don't open it, and you shouldn't be standing behind it."

Immediately, two locks click into place, but the pad of light footsteps moving away from the door is audible enough to reassure me that the girl was not in danger of being crushed by the door that Finnick and I were about to collapse in.

"Haymitch!"

The surprised voice stops me in my tracks. Finnick still charges at the door, and the entire house shakes with the impact, but the door does not budge. I turn around, but I already recognize the voice. "Hello ."

"Oh, why don't you just call me Lynn," she says, frowning. Strands of light blond hair are tucked under a loose hood, plastered to her skull, making her look wearier than I remembered. "Why are you trying to break into my house?"

Honestly, I never liked Lynma Fairbain, as I still thought of her even though she was now going by Lynn Everdeen. Everyone had said she was the most beautiful girl in the school, but for one I never liked the rich family's children, and she seemed like an arrogant bitch. Always keeping to herself but for Maysilee and sometimes the baker's son, who was now a baker himself, and barely acknowledging even Everdeen for a long, long time.

"And who is this?"

"Ah," says Finnick, stepping away from the door. "Sorry ma'am, I'm Finnick Odair, and Haymitch came to talk to you and your daughter and as you can see, we haven't succeeded in doing that."

"Odair, Odair," she murmurs, "District 4, is it?" She pauses, thinking. "I'm sorry about that little boy of yours."

His eyes widen slightly and he blinks a few times, charm fading. Finally, he says, "Thank you." As if struck dumb, he just stands there and repeats the words again. "Thank you."

Madge steps up, looking like the sweet little girl that she appears to be. "Ma'am, could you possibly convince Primrose to come out?"

Lynn looks startled, and she seems to shrink back a little. "Prim? I can't tell her to let you in."

"You're her mother!" I snap, impatient. All I am hearing from the older woman's mouth is the same words that came from the insecure young teenager's. After I had returned from my Games Lynn had nothing to say to me about Maysilee or the others at all. And that look she had given me; I was sure it had been a look of contempt. Or worse, pity. "Tell her something or Finnick and I are actually going to break your door down."

Her eyes turn to mine, wide and frightened. "I can't!" she cries.

"Why not?! She's your daughter and it's your responsibility to take care of her! It's your responsibility to take care of Katniss as well, but what are you doing? You're standing here saying you can't. You haven't changed at all, have you," I snarl. "You haven't changed since school, since Everdeen died, and since Katniss was reaped! Get yourself together!"

"I have changed," she protests, "Katniss—"

"Perhaps I only knew Katniss for a few days, but I can already see how she has been the one carrying the burden of taking care of your family! She is the one who will survive these Games that even Maysilee couldn't beat, and she is the one who has taken your role. I would say that you are not needed, but unless you want to somehow be rid of yourself—"

"Stop yelling at my mother." A small, but cold voice barely pierces the air, but it sounds so cold the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

The door stands half ajar, and a small, quivering, blond little girl strides up to me and smacks my hand, probably because she can't reach my face.

"Prim!" says Lynn reproachfully. "I'm fine. Now let the gentlemen in." Her hand shakes as long, white fingers grip the creaky door handle to slowly pull the door to a full open. "Now come on."

Prim flees back through the door without another word, retreating back into the dim depths. Most houses in the Seam could not afford proper lighting so on days like this, with storm and rain, it was barely possible to not be affected by the gloom.

Finnick lingers to talk to Lynn, whose presence I can't stand to be in for a moment longer, so I enter the house to find Prim. Her soft voice, light as a bird's, floats through the air. As I stumble through the dark, a deep bass voice joins it.

"Gale, can't you stay?"

"I'm really sorry Prim," he replies, "but I don't want to run into anyone I would regret seeing again."

There's a short pause, before Prim starts begging, voice muffled, "Please don't leave me alone. I'm scared. I'm scared for Katniss and for you, and then Haymitch is here too—"

I cough.

The is a rustle and a swift swish of wind and shadows and Gale retreats, leaving me alone with Prim. Before he leaves, there is an almost inaudible breath of, "Be strong," and then he is gone.

"So it's just you and me, hm," I say to Prim.

She shrinks back.

"Look, I don't want to hurt you or anything," I snap. "I never wanted to hurt people like you, yet you all are so angry and afraid of me, of the Capitol and—"

"I'm not afraid of you." Primrose, as if just to prove me wrong, steps forward, trembling, but pretending to be dauntless. "I don't need to be afraid of you. Mummy's afraid of you though, that's why I couldn't let you keep talking to her. Mummy's afraid of a lot of things." She lifts his chin, defiantly. "But Katniss isn't." Her bottom lip trembles.

I chuckle. Oh, she doesn't know the half of it, I think. Katniss is as afraid as her mother is, but not of the same things. She was just as frightened as I was, in a way. We were all cowards at heart; the Games just brought out the worst of us. "Your sister's fearless," I reply agreeably. "Now, will you talk to me?"

She twitches, pursing her lips. "Yes." Her tiny, fluttering hand stretches out and grasps mine, drawing me into the kitchen. "You can sit," she says politely, gesturing to a table with four chairs around it. She drops into the chair farthest from me. Not wanting to sit down across from her intimidatingly, I sit down by her side.

"That was Katniss' chair," she murmured under her breath.

"It is still her chair," I affirm, making her startle a little at the realization that I had heard her words. "It should always be her chair."

Prim shifts uncomfortably, scratching at the hard wood of the table with her forefinger. She is carving her own name faintly into the wood. "I..." she begins, but does not finish. She continues scratching, the sound tickling my ear.

What was wrong with the girl? There was something bothering her, but I did not know enough about her to be able to figure it out. Katniss had told me nothing about her darling of a little sister and already she was throwing my expectations far off.

"So I'm just going to tell you this, because I don't think I can talk to your mother right now, so I'm going to just tell you everything I need to say," I say slowly.

"I can't talk to my mother all the time either," replies Prim, a childish pout twisting her mouth stubbornly. "She gets quiet. Scary quiet."

Katniss hadn't mentioned anything of the sort, but then again, there was a lot about her family that Katniss had failed to mention. I had known about Peeta's brothers and I had been forewarned of Peeta's witch of a mother, but I had heard nothing about the mother that Lynn had been to Katniss or her dear sister Prim.

"Is Katniss going to make it to the final eight?" says Prim quietly, her eyes serious and quiet. "I've never studied tracker jacker venom so I don't know what's going to happen to her. I mean, she did pull the stingers out, so I guess that's good, but I don't know how strong the venom is..." She trails off, a tad nervously.

"The venom won't kill her," I assure. "Something else might though, but I am taking no chances. If she makes it, she makes it and they will come, with cameras and lights and stylists to dress you up so that you don't even look like yourself anymore."

Her gaze is drawn to mine, unbreaking. "And then?"

The light blue orbs are almost translucent, but they are clear. "And then you take over. Let your mother cry and let your mother crumble but you be strong, hear me? Don't play the wispy, weak little sister who shrinks back at a single touch, and don't be the sister who relies on the hunter to protect her. Your sister is not a strong candidate in these Games, so you better look as strong, if not stronger than her. You have to look like you are smarter, cleverer, and quicker to understand than she ever is or was."

The silences lapses over the two of us like ocean waves rising up a sandy beach. Eventually, the waves break, crashing upon a sheer cliff of rock. "I don't want to."

"You don't want to?" I say incredulously, that reply honestly being the last thing that I ever expected.

The childish look that she gives me suddenly reminds me of her true age. I have been speaking to her as if she were Lynn, I realize, or at least, the person who I thought Lynn should have become. But she was only a child, of what, twelve or thirteen years of age. She looked more like she was ten when her shoulders slumped and her gaze dropped. Looking directly at me, her eyes were as wise as those who have survived far more than was merciful.

The stubborn set to her lips quells. "I'm scared."

She is afraid, I realize, but not of the prospect of Katniss never coming back again, nor of the Capitol and the Hunger Games. She is afraid of me and of Katniss becoming like I am now. She is afraid and angry and scared.

I hate myself, but I can't just stop now. Still, my gut wrenches, like a sword being twisted. "Just remember what I said," I mutter. "This society may seem sophisticated, but really, it's a world where the strong can only reign with cruelty and the weak can only survive in desperation. I'm not going to let you become that desperate. You are going to be strong."

"Katniss," she murmurs. "What is she going to do?"

My lip tightens, but I have no reply. "She'll survive."

"And Peeta?"

Again, the astonishment that I could feel from just two words from that mouth. "What do you want to know about Peeta?"

She shifts forward in her chair, toes not even able to reach the ground, and says with all seriousness, "I want to tell you something about him. That wound of his is going to kill him, no matter what he does. He needs powerful antibiotics."

"Now, sweetie, I know nothing about medicine and even I can see how that is going to kill him." I smile at her.

That's the last straw for the girl. Standing up abruptly, she knocks the chair over, running out of the room with a muffled sob. Just a girl, I think. She's just a little girl. My lips twist wryly. I'm a very cruel person.


End file.
